


Whispers In The Air

by starryeyedkids



Series: A Song For The Sea [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Fluff, Ghosts, Haunting, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Magic, Magic Harry, Magic-Users, Mystery, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Teacher Louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-10-19 04:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10632621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starryeyedkids/pseuds/starryeyedkids
Summary: “It’s – it’s about Mayown,” Ms. Abbot said. “There’s a graveyard there. It – the grave diggers say that they’ve seen ghosts,” her voice wavered.Scattered titters could be heard around the room. Harry craned his neck and listened intently.“It began two months ago when two grave diggers left claiming that the graveyard was overrun by ghosts,” Ms. Abbot said indignant. "No one believed them and new grave diggers were hired.”“Did the new grave diggers also claim that they saw ghosts?” someone asked.“Yes,” Ms. Abbot said. “There weren’t any problems at first, but then they too said that the graveyard was haunted.”An uneasy murmur rose up in the room as people whispered with each other.**Set four months afterA Song For The SeaHarry has left Twilling behind and has moved to Warlington to learn magic and to find a new job. He is living with Louis and everything should be going well except Harry isn't sure if his new job is right for him or not, Louis has recurring nightmares and there are ghosts haunting a graveyard.





	1. Bittersweet Goodbyes

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second part of A Song For The Sea series and it includes ghosts! and magic! and angst! and also fluff! Please read the previous part if you haven't read it before because concepts and characters from first part make an appearance here and this won't make much sense otherwise.
> 
> Thanks to [K](https://hazillions.tumblr.com/) for cheering me on and offering endless support.
> 
> Word count for this chapter: 5k+

The day Harry was to leave Twilling; he went to the cove one last time and took Liam along with him.

It had been a month since he had last come to the cove, and the rank, briny air seemed alien to him and it made him recoil. Liam made a huffing noise and clapped a hand over his nose. Harry took shallow breaths until his nose got used to the suffocating air in the cove, and he placed his lantern on the rock before looking out towards the sea.

The sea was calm, almost sombre and the waves lapped gently against the rocks. The sound of the waves mingled with the sounds of a droning buzz, a slightly higher pitched buzz and a low, continuous buzz. Harry swelled in pride at being able to recognize the various spells emanating from the cove, but then frowned when he realized that it was probably the proximity to the source of the spell that made it easily recognizable.

“Fascinating isn’t it?” Liam said, his voice sounding nasally in a way that suggested he was trying to speak as he held his breath.

“Yes. It’s – it’s amazing,” Harry said. Amazing seemed rather tepid a word for this feeling – seeing the impossible in action, knowing that something that most thought of as a fantasy – magic – was a thing that was real and existent and seeing the way it made the air shimmer and the water ripple. It was awe inspiring. Breathtaking.

“Ingenious, too. It was so thrilling – when we came back the next day and saw that the spell was still active,” Liam made a pleased sound. “It is the highlight of my NWS career, let me tell you. It beats even the soothing salve I helped Prof. Summerhayes with.”

Harry sighed, a bit jealous. He had just stood there and wrung his hands while Mrs. Hawkins, Niall and Liam did all the work. He hadn’t even been able to understand the theory behind it then, and had just looked from one of them to the other as they had discussed the best way to make the Call permanent.

Harry opened his mouth to rue his lack of participation, but changed his mind when the simmering worry at the back of his mind made itself known by sending an icy swoop through his belly.

“Liam, listen. Are you sure the Call will hold? You’ll check every day, won’t you?”

Liam frowned and tapped his foot. “Of course it will hold. You were here when we put the spell in place, Harry. You know it will hold...it has held on for so long, anyway!”

Harry sighed and looked down at the floor of the cove, concentrating on the soft splash-splash-splash sound Liam’s boot made on the wet floor. He knew that he was aggravating Liam; Harry had had this same conversation a few weeks ago with him. But, this worry – this feeling that he was shirking his duty and dooming the whole of Twilling to a merpeople invasion wouldn’t go away – no matter how logical he tried to be.

Liam continued speaking, “The basal spell is ancient, Harry, permanency and strength. Mrs. Hawkins has recreated the spell almost exactly – it holds up those ancient monuments, you know – she has adapted the spell to channel the Call and the resonance spell will take care of the range. What more could you want? And, you’ve been checking it, haven’t you?”

“Yes and I know,” Harry snapped. “I just can’t stop worrying,” he said in a calmer voice.

Liam stopped tapping his foot. Harry watched a lone bead of water roll down the toe of the boot. He sighed and looked up and then looked away when he saw that Liam’s face had creased in sympathy.

“I understand that you’re worried, but there is no reason to be because the moment something goes wrong, I’ll be here immediately.”

Harry remained silent. He looked out at the rising sun and studied the pink and orange hued horizon and hoped that Warlington had beautiful sunrises, too. Coldness swept through his stomach again as he thought about his cottage that was rented out to a newlywed couple and his trunk that sat on the floor in Tom’s guestroom. Harry looked at Liam who was looking back at him with warm, understanding eyes.

“I think... I’m mixing up my feelings,” Harry said. “I know the spell works well. Hell, I’ve been listening to the Call from the beach itself for a month now. But, I just – I’m leaving behind everything I know. That’s – that’s what’s scaring me. I think,” Harry dropped his eyes and spoke the last bit to the hollow of Liam’s throat. Liam wasn’t wearing a shirt collar because of the early hour of the morning and he sort of looked like a scandalous rake out on a – what word had Louis used that one time? Harry couldn’t remember – secret meeting. Not that he would ever tell Liam that. Harry instead thought about the new shirt collars and neck ties that he’d bought last week and his gardening gloves that he’d stashed away in a nook in his trunk.

“Don’t worry so, Harry. It always seems difficult at first, but then you get used to it. Besides, you have Louis with you and Dusty, too. You’ll be meeting Mrs. Hawkins and Niall on a frequent basis. You won’t be alone if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Harry was worried about being in a completely unfamiliar place with no idea of what to do. He knew that he knew people in Warlington, and that he wouldn’t be alone as he navigated through life in a big town, but Harry had only ever moved from his mother’s house to his grandfather’s and he had spent twelve years in Twilling. He had no idea if he could handle it and he knew that he was being childish since hundreds of people did this every day.

Harry said, “Yes. Thanks, Liam.”

Liam looked at him like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t actually say anything. Harry walked out of the cove and as they reached the beach, the all the buzzes that Harry had been able to discern in the cove, melded into a monotonous, continuous sound.

“Write to me, alright. And I hope you’ll have a great time in Warlington, Harry. All the best.”

“Thank you, Liam. My best wishes are with you always.”

Harry shook hands with a suspiciously misty eyed Liam and after grinding Harry’s bones to fine dust with a crushing embrace, Liam left for his home. Harry stayed back to watch the sunrise and sat listening to the sound of the sea for a long time, entranced and already missing it.

**

Harry reached Tom and Daniel’s cottage just as Tom had put the kettle to boil. Tom’s moustache hung limp around his lip without any beeswax to hold it up and his hair was crested up on one side and flat as a sheet on the other. He looked ridiculous and Harry told him so with great relish.

“Sod you,” Tom, amicable only because tea was just around the corner.

Harry boiled eggs for breakfast while Tom toasted the bread. Harry was silent as he worked, unable to think of what to say now that goodbye was imminent. Talking about commonplace things seemed wasteful, but it felt too early to have a serious talk. So, silence it was. Even that felt wrong, damn it.

“So...er, lunch at the pub today, right?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Tom nodded and sipped his tea in a fortifying manner. Harry sighed internally and prepared himself.

“Look, Harry,” Tom began. “I’m really glad that you aren’t staying back here out of some idiotic sense of duty towards John. I’m glad that you’ve stopped letting his ideas about – what was it? – _fanciful notions_ , or other rubbish that he said about you wanting to be a solicitor. But... you really aren’t going to Warlington for Louis are you?” Tom said, looking nervous, but determined.

“No, Tom,” Harry said, trying not to sound impatient. “I’m not going to Warlington because Louis’ there, I’m going because _I_ want to go.” Harry said.

‘ _I want to go because I can learn about my magic.’_ Harry thought, but he didn’t voice it. He couldn’t obviously.

“I know that I sound like an arse – you can decide things for yourself, but I worry, you know.”

“You needn’t,” Harry said in a frosty voice. “I’ve told you already, Tom.”

Tom sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand. “I’m sorry I’m an arse.”

“It’s alright.” Harry said.

He spooned the boiled eggs into a plate and then looked for the egg cups. He put the eggs in the egg cup and followed Tom to the table. Harry placed the egg cups on the table and then pulled out a chair to sit.

“You suddenly said you were going to go to Warlington and only after you started courting Louis. That’s why -” Tom paused and winced when Harry glared at him. “Harry! I’m worried because you feel head over heels with a man who was in a coma for months, and then you decided that you’re going to go to Warlington to follow your dreams. What on earth is one supposed to think?”

“For god’s sake Tom!” Harry shot out of his chair. “I may be younger than you, but that doesn’t mean I’m a fool! It may look like that, but it isn’t what you’re thinking. I’ve told you that I befriended Niall when I was working for Dr. Payne, and he helped put in a word for me with his friend. I met Louis at Payne’s, and it was a happenstance.”

“Alright, alright! I’m sorry, I’ll stop talking. Don’t yell so,” Tom said in a sullen voice.

“I’m not yelling,” Harry said though his throat did feel a little sore.

Tom took out his pocket watch and looked at it. He started making another cup of tea. Daniel came back to a piping hot cup of tea and a tense room.

“Did you two somehow already hear what Arbuthnot said?” Daniel asked as he took off his boots and his jacket. He smelled strongly of hay and milk, but Tom beamed at him and went up to him to kiss him all the same.

“What did Arbuthnot say? Was it something about me running back home before stepping a foot outside Twilling?” Harry said, smiling at the obvious affection between the two of them.

“No. Well, yes, it was something like that, but what he actually said was, “He’ll join a union and go to hell,” or something like that. He’s been throwing a fit ever since you gave your notice, Harry.”

“Yes,” Harry drawled, “It’s probably because I’m the only one who made a show of believing him when he said that those aphrodisiacs that he grew secretly were foreign herbs for a better constitution.”

Tom burst out laughing. “I always knew that he was that type of person!”

Harry’s mood brightened as he laughed along with Tom and Daniel as he ate breakfast. Tom and Daniel had to rush, however, since they had to go to work. Harry bade them a good day and then washed the dishes to pass time. He had given his notice a month ago and he had finished all his obligations three days ago. He had spent two days out of those scrubbing and cleaning his cottage for the new renters, and packing up the last of his belongings.

Harry’s heart squeezed as he thought about the _‘H’_ and _‘G’_ that he’s found scratched on the leg of the dining table. It had brought forth a wave of memories of all the games he and Gemma had played; cops and robbers, queen and the knave (The only thing that had made Gemma laugh were Harry’s attempts at being amusing and not the jokes themselves), marbles and an elaborate pantomime that they’d created. And then his grandfather had forbidden Gemma from playing with him because a thirteen year old girl playing cops and robbers with her brother was un-ladylike.

Harry’s mood soured at the thought of his grandfather, and he banished him from his mind. Harry dried his hands and looked around him to find something to do. There was always scrubbing to do, but the fat blister between his fingers was reason enough to not scrub. He decided to take a walk around Twilling to pass time until lunch and with that in mind, he put on his coat and cap and set out.

Twilling wasn’t large. It was in fact the smallest among the four towns that made up this stretch of land, and shared a municipality with Ryson. It was also poorer compared to the other three, but it was self sufficient. Harry walked around without any particular destination in mind, taking in the weathered buildings and the rotten roads and the smell of fish that was all pervasive here. People were milling about, and Harry’s lips curved with a faint smile when he remembered Louis complaining, “People don’t walk here, they crawl!”

Harry felt decadent and guilty for taking a stroll at 8 in the morning when others were on their way to work. Though he had just breakfasted, he couldn’t resist the smell of meat pies that wafted from a nearby cart, and he brought a meat pie that greased his fingers the moment he touched it and a cup of tea that was three quarters tar and one quarter tea. Just what Harry liked.

Harry ate and tried to wipe away the grease on his fingers with his mud stained handkerchief, but the grease clung to his fingers. Every bit of that meat pie probably clung to one’s body, especially around the waist. Harry gave up and continued walking, moving deeper into Twilling.

The centre of the town held most of the business: trade, commerce, industry etcetera. There was also a bank, with only half or less of the town’s population as their customers, the other half considering the bank as a money gobbling demon. It was staffed by harried government staff, and Harry had once stood three hours in a line that consisted of one other person as they waited for the _only_ man who could apparently do their work to come back from his mistresses’ house, if Harry had interpreted the other staff’s sniggers correctly.

Harry strolled through the market, admired some of the fresh flowers that had come in at the flower stall. He meandered for an hour and a half before realising that he had to wait for three hours more, so Harry walked back to Tom’s house. He wished Dusty was here for him to play with, but Niall had taken Dusty with him when he had left Twilling, and though Harry was grateful for that – Dusty wouldn’t have enjoyed being locked away in a cage in the luggage compartment of a train. A ride in Niall’s carriage was a better option – he still missed Dusty.

Once he was back at Tom’s place, he rifled through his portmanteau and took out the sheaf of papers that Mrs Hawkins had given him: the NWS textbook. He had been doing the exercises that were prescribed and also reading the theory, though he there were many things that he still found difficult. Turns out that rote learning a powerful spell didn’t translate to understanding. He had just started an exercise where he had to conjure a gust of wind to blow away a sheet of paper, but the only thing that he had managed was to do was to move the sheet an inch by vigorously flapping his hand.

When the time came for him to leave, Harry shoved the sheaf of papers deep within his portmanteau and shut the clasp. He put on his coat and flat cap before walking towards the pub. The winter months had begun and though Twilling didn’t get any snow, the sun wasn’t as strong as it usually was in the noon and the crisp, chill wind made Harry shudder as it blew down his neck. It would snow in Warlington, he knew, and he bit down on an excited smile at the thought of seeing snow after such a long time.

He reached before Tom and Daniel, as he had known he would, so he settled down on a table that was closest to the fire and ordered a pint of ale. He didn’t have to wait long, however, because they came in five minutes later. The pub was almost empty still; the lunch crowd hadn’t arrived yet. Daniel spotted Harry and walked over to him.

“I must warn you, Harry, that Tom is all set to blubber and sob,” Daniel said as he pulled out a chair for Tom.

Tom grumbled as he sat down, and gave Daniel a light shove when he sat down beside Tom. “I’m sad, I’ll admit, but I shan’t blubber or anything like that!”

“Really, Tom? Didn’t you cry when your niece went back home?” Harry teased. Not that he was any better; tears filled his eyes every time he had to say goodbye, but he hid it by blinking rapidly as he looked up, down and anywhere except the person. He didn’t think that it was an effective strategy.

“Oh sod you! You’re a right menace, Harry! Your Louis is a bad influence on you. Taught you to be all cheeky.”

“Hey! Louis didn’t teach me how to be cheeky or anything, I always was a bit cheeky.”

“He made it worse. That time we met you, he was teasing you and you were smiling like an idiot,” Daniel said.

“Yes, I was quite worried that you’d forget how to _not_ smile and end up like a character in scary story. ‘The forever smiling man.’ ‘Don’t ever be like young Harry,’ mothers would say to their kids.” Tom said, in between snorts.

“Well, really, Tom, you were embarrassing when you first started courting Daniel too. And so were you,” Harry pointed his glass at Daniel. “Mate, I can fish better than you. Do you want to see,” Harry mimicked what Daniel had said all those years ago when he had just come up to Harry and Tom one day when they were lolling on the beach, doing nothing very earnestly.

Tom laughed. “I thought you were a prick. Who says that!”

Daniel rolled his eyes. “You seemed to like it; you’re married to me now, aren’t you?”

“I helped, too. Tom honestly didn’t realise that were trying to flirt with him, but I did after spending two hours stuck in a tiny boat with you two,” Harry said.

The pub had a fixed menu, and today they were serving roasts. They were served their food by Meeks the owner. Harry looked at him in surprise because Meeks usually sat in a corner of the pub and kept watch over everything, roaring like a bull when someone did something wrong.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you, boy?” Meeks asked. His speaking voice sounded like an ox’s bellow, too: deep, loud and gruff.

“Er – yes, Mr Meeks,” Harry said, sounding unsure.

Meeks looked the same as he had back when he used to come over to meet Harry’s grandfather. He was a stout, small, barrel chested man with a red face and bristling black hair and side burns that were only touched with grey even though he was nearing sixty.

“Good. Good for you, boy. I’m glad that you didn’t listen to John. He had strange fancies, he did,” Meeks’ sharp grey eyes bored into Harry’s, heavy with meaning.

 _What is he talking about?_ Harry thought. _Does he know about magic?_

Harry glanced at Tom and Daniel, both of them looked a little uncomfortable. “Er -” Harry said.

Meeks had cut off his friendship with John an year before John’s death, Harry knew. John had become increasingly sullen once he had retired and at that point Harry had stopped talking to him, limiting conversation with John only to household concerns. Harry swallowed, wondering if John had let slip about magic when he drank with his mates.

Meeks was still looking at him with a disconcerting look, and Harry took a sip of his ale. “I don’t know what grandfather said to you, Mr Meeks.”

“Mr Meeks, I think we should -” Tom interjected, but Meeks cut him off.

“Be safe. Cities are big, lots to do there, don’t misplace your brains. They’re unforgiving, the cities are. You’re bright, so don’t become like John,” Meeks said.

“Yes. Thank you,” Harry said.

Meeks nodded and turned away, and roared at his boy for spilling the gravy. Harry looked at Tom, who exchanged a glance with Daniel.

“What the hell was that?” Tom asked.

“I don’t know. I really don’t. I suppose my grandfather got sloshed enough one day to talk nonsense and that probably spooked Meeks.”

“John talking sober was frightening enough, I couldn’t begin to guess what he talked about while deep into his cups,” Tom said.

Harry snorted and tried to take his mind off what Meeks had said. Daniel tried to lighten the mood by telling them about how someone’s goat had come into the dairy and picked a fight with the dairy’s goat.

“It put everyone on the edge of their seats. Who knew goats were so fearsome,” he paused. “And no one knew that old Toga had this much fight left in him.”

“Sounds enthralling,” Tom said, not sounding enthralled.

Harry didn’t find it interesting either, but the topic had been diverted from Meeks’ strange advice and moved to other topics. They finished eating and left the pub. A pall had been cast over Harry’s mood, and he didn’t join the conversation, instead he found himself deep in thought. The route they were taking wasn’t close to the sea, but if Harry concentrated enough and when the wind fell, he could hear the faintest buzz. For a moment he worried that the buzzing was audible to everyone even though he knew that non – magical people couldn’t sense magic.

 _What if being aware of magic made non – magical people sense magic?_ Harry’s anger flared at the thought of John drunkenly pouring out everything about magic to his mates and jeopardizing everything. _Hypocrite,_ Harry thought, seething. He took a deep breath and pushed his thoughts aside and paid attention to what Daniel was saying. It didn’t matter what John had said; he had left behind no papers or diaries talking about magic, and Meeks would never be able to prove anything.

“Alright, so your train’s at two- forty five and it’s half past one now. So, I say we should leave now,” Tom said when they reached home.

“You don’t have to come, Tom. I’ll be alright,” Harry said.

“No. I want to come and see you off,” Tom said with finality.

Harry nodded, thankful for the company, and went through the list of things that he’d drawn up on more time. He carried his trunk to one of the horse carts from the dairy that Daniel had so generously provided him with for going to the station. Harry washed his face and then combed his hair before attaching a collar to his shirt and then affixing his tie. He took a deep breath and then went outside.

“Ready?” Tom asked.

“Yes,” Harry said.

“Well, Harry. Best of luck, mate,” Daniel said, moving forward towards Harry.

“Thank you, Daniel. I’ll miss both of you,” Harry said, shaking hands with Daniel.

“Write to us frequently, or we’ll pine away in worry,” Daniel said, grinning.

“I will. I promise.”

“Alright. Have a safe journey,” Daniel said, giving Harry a solid slap on his back.

Tom was silent as Harry got into the cart. Harry was silent, too and he waved to Daniel as Tom chivvied the horse into a brisk trot. There were quite a few people milling about in the station because trains that came to Twilling were infrequent with long gaps between two trains. Harry bought a ticket and his hand was clammy as he grasped it between his fingers. Twilling to Warlington.

Tom had taken Harry’s trunk to the place where the third class compartment would be, and he was exchanging a few words with a uniformed ticket collector. Harry put away the ticket inside his coat pocket and walked up to Tom. The ticket collector had already left, so Harry asked Tom what the ticket collector said.

“The train’s on time,” Tom said. “Good thing. God knows waiting for trains is awful. I end up spending far too much money on sweets,” Tom grumbled.

“Everything’s going well, then,” Harry said, relieved. Waiting for an hour or more for the train would be torture. He couldn’t keep still as it is with the excitement cresting in his stomach. Harry was glad that his nervousness had vanished, or at least swept aside for the time being, though he still felt a little off-kilter, like he was about to step forward when he couldn’t see anything in front of him.

“Mate, listen,” Tom said, sounding serious and earnest.

Harry looked at him and said, “What is it?”

Tom tugged at his moustached, curling the tip of it. “I was rude today morning, being all suspicious about your plans...” Tom began but Harry cut him off.

“We’re past that.”

“Yes, but – look. Harry, I think of you as my younger brother – you _are_ my brother and I worry for you, no matter what, and I want you to know that whatever happens, you’ll always have a home here. You’ll always have _me_ ,” Tom’s voice was low and thick.

Harry swallowed past the painful lump in his throat. He blinked away the rotten tears that had gathered in his eyes. “Damn you, Tom. You’ve made me as teary as a child,” Harry rubbed his nose to hide a sniffle. “I’m – thank you, you know, for everything. You’ve helped me throughout all these years that we’ve known each other, and – and... it means so much Tom, you mean a lot to me.”

Tom’s laugh was rough. “Well, let’s take a few minutes to become stoic, manly men again.”

Harry chuckled and discreetly dabbed his eyes. They talked about commonplace things after that; Tom told Harry that he had to write him a letter the very next day so that it reached him in a fortnight, and Harry asked Tom to keep an eye on his cottage and to keep him updated on the gossip. The faint, faraway whistle of the train startled Harry, and his stomach swooped up and down as he saw the plume of smoke from the train.

People around them who were sitting or lounging against any available surface scurried over to the platform. Harry could hear the faint rumble of the train now, and its whistle was now louder.

“Alright. Good luck, Harry. I’ll miss you something awful, mate,” Tom said, voice urgent.

“Bye, Tom. I’ll miss you, too,” Harry said and embraced him.

“Righto. Beware of the pickpockets in the trains! There are quite a lot of them these days.”

“I will be,” Harry said.

The train slowed down as it came up to the station, its wheels grinding against the rails. It seemed to heave a huge sigh as it stooped and breathed out a cloud of steam. The chatter of conversation in the station turned into an outright din as people tried to talk over the booming voice of the station master who was announcing: “Twilling! Twilling! Train to Warlington! Train to Warlington!”

Harry picked up trunk and portmanteau and gave a final nod to Tom before boarding the train. He nearly tumbled off the little stairs that led to the carriage, but he managed to balance himself and scrambled inside. The carriage was half full with people who must’ve boarded from Ryson. Harry walked deeper inside the carriage and found a compartment with a seat by the window. He shoved his trunk in the luggage rack beneath the seats and craned his neck to look out of the window.

He spotted Tom and called out to him, and came to stand opposite the window. A few more people entered his compartment, and the station master called out a warning that the train was about to leave. The train trembled to life and let out a long whistle.

Harry waved to Tom. A second warning rang through the station, and there was a small commotion further up the carriage. Harry was vibrating in his seat, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the knee of his trousers. A third and final warning was called out and the train grinded forward. Harry waved frantically at Tom and he waved back with his kerchief in his hand. Harry watched him as the train chugged forward, slow at first, but increasing its speed as it moved forward. Soon, Harry was unable to see Tom, and he kept watching out of the window as the train glided ahead. He watched as the drab blue and grey of the station became a tiny speck in the background, and became smaller and smaller until it vanished from his sight.

Harry swallowed hard and looked away from the window. He cast a cursory glance at the people in the compartment. Two men who looked like small time businessmen, an old lady who had already taken out her knitting and an military looking lady reading a newspaper. An irate mother appeared all of a sudden with a sullen boy who looked around five years old.

“Sit!” the mother barked out, pointing at the seat that one of the businessmen, Harry and the military lady were sitting on. They all shifted further into the seat making space for the boy. The boy sat down and glared at his mother who sat opposite to him.

He watched as the boy took in a deep breath, and he readied himself for the foghorn that the boy was going to unleash from the depth of his chest. He recognised that look and so did everyone else in the compartment because they all held their breaths. The mother, however, gave the boy such a flinty eyed look that the boy subsided at once. Harry saw the grandmother giving the mother an approving nod. The boy busied himself with making the flesh of his fingers bulge by tying a string tight around it. Everyone seemed to relax and Harry looked out of the window once again.

The scenery was completely foreign. He had left Twilling behind.

 To be continued


	2. Warlington

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other than Gemma, Harry and Louis' family are original characters in this fic. 
> 
> Thanks as always to [K](https://hazillions.tumblr.com/) for looking over this chapter.
> 
> Word count: 5k+

The journey was boring and fraught with irritable passengers, a baby with an ear-ache and grumbles about Harry’s luggage. More people got in at every station and the people who got down were few, and soon the carriage was brimming with people. The train stopped at a station, and when people were carried forward into others back with the momentum of the train, Harry could feel the tempers flare to high heavens. He had given up his seat to an elderly gentleman was now standing in the corridor between the compartments, backed into a corner by at least five people who surrounded him.

The nasal, high pitched voice of the station master pierced the air, “Rook’s Corner! Rook’s Corner! Train to Warlington! Train to Warlington!”

A thin man whose pointed elbow had been poking Harry’s ribs for ages, murmured to his companion, “Outer Pinewood and then we’ll be at Warlington.” The man had been informing his companion about the stations that were left till Warlington at every stop in between his unrestrained prattle about his horses and Harry was glad because though he had taken pains to remember the station, he realised that he couldn’t actually recall them.

Thank god! Harry wasn’t an ill tempered man and he generally liked being around people, but being in a confined space with more than three people only led to hatred and murder. His stiff collar prickled the sweaty skin of his neck, his undershirt stuck to his sweaty torso, and he still hadn’t thought about how he was going to get his luggage when there were so many people inside the compartment.

When the train left Outer Pinewood, people started shifting and getting their luggage which mostly consisted of portmanteaus and briefcases whereas only Harry seemed to have a fat trunk. It was vaguely embarrassing, but he was moving homes, so he muttered a disgruntled sorry when someone kept giving put upon sighs. Harry’s trunk ensured that he was only boxed in by three people as two of them were driven away by the threat of the trunk bruising their toes and he counted it as a win. At least that man with knitting needle like elbows wasn’t anywhere near him.

The train arrived at Warlington. People flowed out and Harry didn’t have to take efforts to walk, people behind him pushed him forward. He stumbled onto the platform with his trunk and portmanteau safe with him, as well as his limbs in correct order and proportions. And – if Harry had thought of the scene in Twilling when the train had arrived as a din, this could be called nothing but a bedlam. There was nothing but chaos in the station: station masters were hollering, trains were coming in, people were moving here and there in a blur, hawkers were screaming and porters were swarming the passengers who had alighted. Harry felt like a deer that had been cornered by hunters and dogs.

He looked around and spotted a huge board beside an exit that said ‘Stagecoaches’ in cursive letters. Harry walked towards the sign, wincing as elbows and heavy feet assaulted him from all sides. A porter appeared all of a sudden in front of Harry, nearly creating a collision that he avoided with an adroit and painful twist of his body.

“Help you, sir?” the porter asked, sounding cheery as if he hadn’t seen Harry twist his body like a snake to avoid hitting the porter.

“No, thank you,” Harry muttered, skirting past the porter.

“I’ll charge real cheap!” the porter goaded.

Harry ignored him and walked with swift steps towards the stagecoaches. He had grasped the correct way to navigate the busy areas in the cities; you walked where you wanted without looking, others be damned. There were thick clouds of people around the coaches, and the area stank of horse manure. Harry had to find a stagecoach that would stop at an inn called The Wasp’s Head and from there he would have to a take a horse cab to Richardson Way. Harry found the stagecoach going to the inn with ease; the coachman was yelling loud enough to rattle the cobblestones. He put away his trunk on the top of the stagecoach and crammed his body inside.

By the time he arrived at the inn, he was sweaty, tired, hungry, miserable and jaded. He drank a cup of tea and ate a few scones at the inn – it was surprisingly good – and thus fortified and with a semblance of hope restored, Harry found a horse cab and at long last arrived at Richardson Way. As the cab moved further into the street, he saw that it consisted of identical buildings that were probably all lodgings and the street was quite busy with people returning home after a day’s work.

He directed the cabbie to drop him off at No.37 and once there, he paid the cabbie and looked at the building. It didn’t have any features that distinguished it from No. 36 and No. 38 that stood on either side of it except for the stained brass No. 37 that hung on the door. Excitement and anticipation surged through him; he would be able to see Louis and hold him in his arms and kiss him. Harry was unable to control the wide smile that split his face.

Harry opened the door and the first thing he smelled was the bitter, faded scent of cheap tobacco and the first thing he saw was a staircase with rickety, uneven staircase that led upstairs.

“Hallo!” a voice said and Harry turned to look at the stocky, balding man who emerged from a room to the side of the staircase.

“Hello! I’m Harry Styles and I’m sharing rooms with a... um, friend? Louis Tomlinson?” Harry said.

“Friend is it?” the man grinned with a waggle of his sparse brows. An apron stretched over his potbelly and it was stained with every kind of food stain imaginable.

“Er-” Harry said at a loss of what to say. There were some lodgings that didn’t take in lovers or even engaged couples for that matter. He hoped this wasn’t such kind of lodgings, but he also didn’t have any idea what Louis had said to this man.

“It’s alright, Mr. Styles. We aren’t one of those hoity-toity places, refusing boarding to everyone except angels from heaven,” he rolled his eyes. “More business for us, I say. I’m Atkins, by the way. My family and I, we run this place together.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Atkins,” Harry said, relieved that he hadn’t created a problem on the very first day of his arrival.

“Likewise, Mr. Styles. You’re in Room 6, second floor,” Atkins said. “My boy Charlie will help you with that trunk. Charlie!” Atkins called out.

“Oh no, thank you, but I’ll manage,” Harry protested but Atkins waved it way.

“Charlie’s gone to return the pork chops. Mum said they were going grey. I’ll help,” a girl of about sixteen said, coming out of the same door from where Atkins had come from.

“This is my daughter Francesca – Franny we call her,” Atkins said. “Franny this is Mr. Styles. Room 6, with Mr. Tomlinson,” Atkins handed over a pair of keys to Franny.

Harry returned the brief smile that Franny gave him. She was stocky like her father, but other than that she didn’t resemble her father much. She hefted up his trunk with ease and glided up the stairs with alacrity and grace that Harry would never be able to reproduce. He nodded at Atkins and carefully picked his way up the stairs, a chorus of creaks and groans following his steps. Harry found himself smiling again even though he knew that Louis would be at the school right now.

Franny unlocked the door of Room 6 for him and placed the trunk near the door. She moved inside the room to light two lamps and once the room was sufficiently illuminated, Harry entered the room. Harry had thought, or hoped rather, that the rooms would smell a little like Louis. But then, Louis would’ve moved in here only two days ago from the cheaper lodgings where he’d been staying. So, Harry ignored the momentary disappointment at the musty smell and the bare, unlived look of the rooms – except for a lone hat on the seat of a chair – and thanked Franny.

 “Would you want some tea?” she asked.

“Yes, please,” Harry said.

Franny went out of the room and shut the door behind here. There was a startled meow from somewhere behind him and Harry turned, his heart swelling with joy. Dusty looked at him from the doorway of a room – the bedroom, he presumed – and then loped over to Harry and winded between his feet, purring deeply and loudly.

“Dusty! Oh god, I missed you so much! It was terrible without you,” Harry said.

He bent down, picked Dusty up and nuzzled him and Dusty’s purrs increased in volume. Dusty nudged Harry’s chin with his head and his whiskers tickled Harry. Harry was still cradling Dusty and cooing at him when there was a knock on his door. He set Dusty down and went to open the door. Franny had brought up the tea and Harry moved aside to let her inside. Dusty seemed determined to decorate Harry’s ankles with fur judging by the way he was still nuzzling Harry.

“Dinner will be served at eight,” Franny said, placing the tea tray on the dining table.

“Alright. Thank you, Franny,” Harry said and sat down on a chair.

Dusty jumped up and made a place for himself on Harry’s lap. Harry didn’t mind though he did wish Dusty wouldn’t knead Harry’s thighs with his claws. Harry made a cup of tea and as he waited for it to cool down, he studied the room. The furniture in the room was old – very old. Harry was sure that it had gone out of fashion thirty years ago, and the wooden frames were stained black. The furniture was arranged near a fireplace that was empty at the moment. A poker leaned against the coal bin, and Harry realised that he would have to pay for coal too since it was a necessity here.

Harry saw two frames hanging on the wall and – were they photographs? Harry picked up Dusty and set him down before walking up to the frames. The light of the lamps didn’t illuminate the photographs clearly, so Harry had to squint and he saw that - yes, they were photographs. The first one was of Louis’ family, all ten of them. Harry studied Louis’ mother and father who were seated in the middle, the three brothers including Louis standing behind them and the five sisters sitting around their parents. The other one was of his mother sitting in a chair and his father standing behind her. Harry wondered what it must be like to sit for a photograph.

Harry went back to the table and picked up his cup of tea, and fumbled with his pocket watch to check the time. It was half past seven now and in the last letter that Louis had sent Harry before he had left Twilling, he had complained at length about how the senior masters at the school foisted the Friday evening study hour and dinner supervision of the boarding students on the junior masters. Consequently, Louis would be late and Harry would have to eat dinner alone.

Harry yawned as the excitement and stress of a long day caught up with him. Exhaustion fell on him like a blanket, overwhelming him with the urge to fall asleep right at this moment. He blinked his heavy eye lids, yawned again and walked over to the bedroom. Harry stopped before the fireplace, picked up a candle from a stack of them on the mantelpiece and lighted it. Dusty followed him, seemingly intent on not letting Harry out of his sight again.

The bedroom had signs of life unlike the living room. A trunk was open on the bed with its contents spilling out of it and onto the bed. Another trunk sat on the floor along with a discarded dressing gown, night clothes and what looked like exercise books. Harry shook his head with a fond smile, marvelling at Louis’ ability to make such a mess in such a short time.

Harry washed his face with cold water in the basin, dried his face and took of his tie, collar and coat. He rubbed his neck as he picked up a book that sat on top of a waistcoat. He flipped through the pages of the book as he walked outside of the bedroom and towards the sofa. It was a shilling shocker, which Harry had expected. Harry had brought some of the books that Louis had left behind at Twilling along - now that they had become Harry’s favourites.

He turned back to the first page and winced when the paper tore at the top. He had barely read the first page when Franny brought up the dinner. He felt ravenous, his stomach rumbled in time with his steps to the dinner table. Harry poked the meat and smelled it before eating. It didn’t _seem_ off, but images of greying, rotten meat were floating before his eyes. He took a dubious bite, chewed it carefully and then started eating with enthusiasm. The last few scraps went to Dusty because Harry was incapable of resisting his plaintive meows.

Harry picked up the book and continued reading, intent on staying awake until Louis came back. His started nodding off soon and was unable to focus on the words on the page. He ended up falling asleep with Dusty’s warm weight on his stomach. He woke up to something tickling his ears. He grumbled and huffed out air in the hopes driving away whatever it was.  

“Harry.”

Was someone calling him? Or was he hearing things?

“Harry, you oaf! This is the tenth time I’m calling you!” it was Louis’ voice and his sentence was punctuated with a sharp jab to Harry’s ribs.

Harry woke up a start and a shriek and clambered to sit up straight. His efforts led to Louis being smacked in the face with Harry’s fly away arm and Dusty falling from his perch. Louis yelped, Dusty hissed and Harry apologised, voice hoarse and words slurring. Dusty stalked off without a backward glance, deeming Harry unworthy of his affections. Harry focused his hazy vision on Louis who was smiling brightly, his eyes crinkling at the sides. Harry answering smile was wide enough that his cheeks ached.

Louis pressed his hands down on Harry’s knee to raise himself up from where he was squatting on the floor and then he kissed Harry. It was a bit difficult to kiss at first because they both were smiling to actually press lips, but once their smiles melted off, it became easier to kiss. It was wonderful. Kissing Louis was familiar; Harry had kissed Louis a lot and for quite a lot of time back in Twilling, but after being away from him for two months made this... special. Important. Harry’s heart was rabbiting all over the place and he was warm and content.

Harry’s hands fisted the teacher’s robes that Louis was wearing, and Louis’ hands were cold against the skin of Harry’s cheek. It was an awkward position; Louis was bending down to kiss Harry who was seated, but Louis wasn’t complaining, so Harry wasn’t going to complain either. Except, he was worried. Didn’t Louis’ back ache?

“Doesn’t your back ache?” Harry asked Louis, pulling away from the kiss.

Louis blinked twice. He was close enough that Harry could admire the curl of his lashes. Harry ran a gentle finger across Louis’ brows and then stroked his lashes. He touched the crow’s feet beside Louis’ eye and then trailed his finger down to his cheekbone.

“I didn’t think about it before you mentioned it,” Louis said with a quirk of his lips.

Louis’ lips looked very enticing, damp, pink and kissable as they were. Harry kept his eyes on Louis’ lips as Louis straightened up and moved a few steps away from the sofa.

“Well, come on then,” Louis said. “I’m not done kissing you yet.”

Harry walked towards Louis and made a scandalized sound when Louis tried to stand on his feet. “Lou! I just shined my boots yesterday,” Harry said.

“They’re very dusty, love,” Louis said with a pointed look at Harry’s boots.

Harry made an agonized sound when he saw the dusty imprint of at least ten different shoes on his boots. “Damned trains and stations. Damned awful people,” he muttered, irritated.

“Charlie will polish them for you,” Louis said.

“He will?”

“Yes. You’ll have to pay him extra though. Now, think about your boots later. Come here,” Louis said and pulled Harry down by his shoulders.

Harry kissed Louis for long, tender moments, and he deepened the kiss to taste Louis, to remember what he felt like, what he tasted like. When they parted for breath, Harry drew Louis into a hug and kissed Louis’ temple.

“I missed you so much,” he said.

“I did too. I love you,” Louis said, his voice muffled due to his face being pressed against Harry’s shoulders.

“I love you too,” Harry said and kissed him again.

 After kissing for some time they gravitated towards the dining table because Louis said he was feeling peckish. Harry was surprised when Louis uncovered the dishes, for they contained a light supper and not a full - fledged meal.

Louis noticed Harry’s look of surprise and said, “They feed us masters at the school.”

“Oh,” Harry said, and sat down beside Louis. “Don’t they have boarding for teachers?”

Louis chewed and swallowed before replying. “They don’t. The school doesn’t have much space – none of the new schools in the city do, nowadays – and all the empty rooms are used by the boarding children. They bring in the money and that matters more to the school.” Louis paused. “They’ll turn into a day school soon, mark my words. Not many people care for boarding schools these days, and most of the students are from the city itself anyway.”

Harry studied Louis in silence. Louis looked healthier; he had put on enough weight so that the sunken dip of his eyes and the sharp hollows of his cheeks had disappeared. Harry smiled and stroked Louis’ shoulder.

“Do you like your new job?” Harry asked. He muffled a yawn with his palm. “You haven’t mentioned it much in your letters.” Louis had written pages upon pages about everything, but he had only touched briefly upon his job.

A shadow passed over Louis’ face for a second. It was replaced by a smile that seemed genuine to Harry - his smile reached his eyes - but he wondered why Louis had looked so discontent for a moment.

“Ah, it is quite good. Better than I expected, actually. I was just waiting to settle in before I formed an opinion,” Louis said. He took a bite in an absent minded way, his eyes roaming over the faded wallpaper. Harry waited.

Louis sighed and sipped water. “I wish I could’ve gotten a place in the school I wanted. But, this is fine too. This is a good school, very good. But – um – it nettles me because the only reason I didn’t get the place at the other school was because I don’t have a good reference,” Louis said with a frown.

“The headmaster from your previous school didn’t give you a reference?” Harry asked, sitting up straight.

“No. He did give me a reference, but not a good one.” Louis was trying to smile, but his smile was more like a grimace.

“Whatever for?” Harry demanded, anger curling through him.

Louis’ smile faded. He was frowning and his shoulders were hunched. He scraped his fork on his empty plate. “Because of the well,” Louis breathed out deeply, “the curse business.”

“But, you told him that you were in an accident. He can’t give you a bad reference when it wasn’t your fault.”

“I was drinking though. My friends attested to that, and apparently there were witnesses who attested to seeing us – my friends, I mean – picking a fight with that old man. So, what the dear, upstanding headmaster said was that it was partly my fault, too. So, he couldn’t give me a glowing reference on grounds of my behaviour.” The knife and fork clattered as Louis dropped them. He roughly wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Lou... that man is an utter bastard,” Harry said, his teeth clenched. “I would’ve – I would’ve kicked his arse. A hundred times at that,” Harry said furious.

“I did threaten to take him to court. The headmaster relented then, gave me a good enough reference. I tried to get a better one, but then he was resistant and taking him to court would be infernally expensive, and not to mention the fact that closer scrutiny into the events would’ve...” Louis shrugged.

Harry slouched back on his chair. Closer scrutiny would’ve destroyed the thin thread of lies that they had woven. Harry felt terrible. It was one thing to lose months of one’s life because of a curse, to be all alone in the vast depth of the sea, to be hunted by other creatures, and another thing all together to face problems caused by the curse even after it had been broken.

“Lou...” Harry said, helpless and angry.

Louis shook his head and stood up. “It’s just a setback. I’ll work hard here – for an year or so and then I’ll apply at the other school again.”

“Yes, but – It’s unfair to you.”

Louis didn’t reply, but instead gave Harry a warm smile. “Come now, Harry. We’ve met after two months. So, let’s talk and...”

Harry yawned.

“Or, sleep,” Louis said.

Harry gave Louis a sheepish smile and got up from the table. Harry called for Franny to clear out the dishes and then went to the bedroom where he saw that Louis had already undressed and was poking the fire that crackled in the hearth. Harry took out his night clothes from the portmanteau and undressed with sluggish movements. He washed his face before joining Louis, and fell asleep with Louis’ warm and solid presence beside him.

**

The next morning, Harry woke up late. He freed his right hand from beneath his pillow to pick up his pocket watch from the nightstand. He opened his eye and took a quick look around the room. The room was pitch black and silent except for Louis’ snuffling. Harry retracted his hand and tried to turn on his back, but Louis made a sound of protest and refused to roll of Harry’s back.

“Lou, I want to get up,” Harry whispered, voice croaky.

Louis didn’t reply. He puffed out a heavy breath that tickled the nape of Harry’s neck and pressed his leg on Harry’s waist. As warm and comfortable as he was, his mind was clearing of all vestiges of sleep and he wanted to get up. He didn’t like lolling about in bed after he was awake, so he began inching his body away from beneath Louis’ body. It was a difficult task because Louis was resisting by pressing all his weight on Harry. Harry freed his numb left hand from a tangle of blankets and Louis’ arms and he slid his hips to the edge of the bed.

“Ugh!” Louis said and rolled off Harry.

“Sorry, love,” Harry said, apologetic. He slipped out of bed and shivered. The fire had died sometime in the night and the air had cooled and it nipped at his skin.

Harry took his pocket watch and tiptoed to Louis’ side of the bed to steal his slippers and dressing gown. He had forgotten to take them out yesterday and he too lazy and too cold to search for it in his portmanteau without any light. He slipped on the dressing gown then he leaned down to kiss Louis’ cheek.

“Shoo,” Louis grumbled.

Harry kissed his forehead and left the room. It was colder in the living room. He felt his way around to the windows, banging his hip and his toes against sundry furniture before he reached the windows. He opened the curtains and looked outside at the early morning scene of a city. It was seven o’ clock according to his pocket watch, but not many people as Harry had imagined were bustling around. The street lamps were still burning for the sun wasn’t high enough to give enough light to see properly.

Now that the curtains were open, the room was bathed in a dull grey light that made it easy to see the furniture. Harry walked over to the fireplace to light a fire without further accidents, and once a fire was blazing, he went back to the window.

Harry still felt tired and also a bit off kilter. He knew that it was because he had woken up in a new place with the excitements of the previous day only a few hours behind him. He would be alright in a few hours hopefully; he didn’t want a strange mood to cast a shadow over his day. Dusty joined after a few moments by making a soundless jump to the window sill that startled Harry. He watched two lamplighters extinguish the street lamps by blowing air into a thin, hollow stick, a policeman chivvying along a rowdy group of boys and people walking about briskly.

Staring out of the window and observing the simple hustle-bustle seemed to have settled him, and Harry was in a better spirits by the time Louis stumbled out of the bedroom. He was wearing a bright blue coloured robe, his hair was ruffled up at the back of his head and his eyes were half shut. He looked like a tiny blue jay.

“Good morning,” Harry said, beaming at Louis who huffed and threw himself on the sofa, making a show of utter exhaustion.

Harry rolled his eyes at the unnecessary dramatics, and then he lets his eyes linger on Louis, taking in the languid, graceful form of his body, the fine stubble on his chin, the lines beside his eyes and a mischievous smile that deepened the longer Harry stared at him.

“It’s rude to stare at people, Harry, and it’s a crime to speak to people who haven’t had their tea yet,” Louis said. His words had a sleepy rasp to them and it sent a pleasant shiver down Harry’s spine.

“It’s a good thing that I don’t abide by your rules then,” Harry said, sitting down in the space that was left on the sofa. He grasped Louis’ legs and placed them on his lap, and sat comfortably.

“It’s basic decency, Harold,” Louis said with a snort.

“I’m going to take that with a pinch of salt,” Harry said, and batted back Louis’ grubby feet when he tried to shove them into Harry’s face.

Louis tired of scuffling with Harry and then dropped his legs back on Harry’s lap. Harry stroked the delicate bone of Louis’ ankle, and dragged his thumb over the rough skin of a badly healed blister. Louis hummed, his eyes slipping shut. Harry waited until Louis’ face slackened as he began to fall asleep, and then he said in a cheerful voice: “What are we going to do today?”

Louis glared at him, and sat up to smack Harry’s shoulder. “You’re a pest,” Louis said, biting back a smile.

Harry gave him a wide, innocent grin and pecked Louis’ nose.

“I have to write letters to my many siblings, and take care of my other correspondence, too,” Louis said, pretending that he wasn’t blushing. “Then, I shall have to look through the exercise books and,” Louis’ sounded pained, “once again experience the dreadful ineptness of some of my students.”

“I have to write letters, too,” Harry said recalling Mr. Meeks’ warnings. He would have to ask Liam to look into it.

“Then we can take a stroll. I’ll show you around Warlington,” Louis said, nuzzling Harry’s jaw.

“We have to unpack before that,” Harry reminded him, shivering when Louis’ breath tickled his neck.

“I’ve mostly unpacked my trunks,” Louis said.

“No, you haven’t! Throwing your things about the room is not unpacking,” Harry said. “You’ll have to help me unpack.”

“You’re a savage ghoul,” Louis said severely. “But, I’ll help you so that you’ll stop pouting at me,” he said wryly, flicking Harry’s bottom lip.

After they had their breakfast and the table was cleared; Harry borrowed a few sheets of paper, a pen and an ink pot from Louis, and started on his letters. He first wrote to Liam, telling him about the conversation with Mr. Meeks in the pub, and asking him to make discreet enquiries. He also asked about the Call – he couldn’t help it. He was a worry wart – and ended the letter with enquiries about Liam’s health and practice, and wrote a brief paragraph about his safe arrival.

Harry wrote letters to Gemma and Tom and put them in an envelope. Louis was still writing industriously, and Harry left him to it as he meandered over to the bedroom to unpack. He didn’t especially like unpacking, but he didn’t fancy having to go through his trunk every time he needed clothes either. Harry worked methodically, putting away his clothes in the cupboard, his neckties and collars in the drawer, his toiletries in the shelf by the basin. He took out his gardening gloves and wondered where he should put them. He didn’t have any use of them now, but he didn’t want to part with them; he had brought them along for sentimental value, after all. He placed them on the nightstand for the time being.

Louis didn’t correct the exercise books, claiming that he still had a lot of time, so they went out with the intention of returning before lunch. As they walked towards a newspaper man who kept the novel serialized that Louis wanted, Harry told Louis about Mr. Meeks.

“I think that my grandfather told Meeks about... you know – _that_ ,” Harry said as he walked beside Louis.

“Perhaps your grandfather talked about something else. You can’t be sure he talked about _that_ ,” Louis said, walking around a man and his three sons who were all holding hands and blocking the way.

Harry waited until they had passed before joining Louis again. “Meeks said grandfather had _strange fancies_ ,” he frowned. “Let it be. Meeks was probably talking about grandfather’s mental state and not ma- _that_.” I’m just angry that grandfather went about babbling about it to everyone while soused after terrifying me with all that talk about asylums and other horrors,” he admitted, irritation boiling up inside him again.

“That’s understandable,” Louis said, grasping Harry’s elbow and steering him away from a deep crack on the cobblestone.

Harry gave Louis a thankful smile. He would’ve tripped over it and broken his nose and teeth, and he didn’t want to lose his teeth because of his gracelessness. He followed Louis to the newspaper man, and as Louis made his purchase, Harry read the morning news from the first page of a newspaper.

“Atrocious!” Louis said as he began walking. “One of the authors still hasn’t published the next instalment even though a month has passed. It was supposed to be a weekly instalment for god’s sake.”

“Oh. Is it interesting?”

“Very much. You should read it too,” Louis said.

“I think I’ll wait until you have all the parts.”

They walked in silence for some time. Warlington wasn’t what Harry would call beautiful; there were only people, bricks and mortar all around Harry, but it had a certain charm, a certain energy that was appealing. Every street was raucous in a way that the whole Twilling never was, and though Warlington lacked the beauty that nature gave Twilling; the arches, columns, gables and lattices were masterfully constructed, and these manmade things were beautiful too.

“How is your family?” Harry asked.

“My parents are looking for a property in the countryside. They’re thinking of moving there after Joseph – my first brother – takes over my parents’ business. He’ll be training two of our sisters who have shown interest in joining him. My youngest brother is enjoying the Navy and my youngest sisters have begun their schooling.”

“Have they decided upon a place?” Harry asked.

“Not yet. And I’m not sure they’ll really move to the countryside. They’ve lived in cities all their lives, so they might not like the countryside.”

“Would you want to move to the countryside? It sounds nice.”

Louis chuckle had a bitter edge to it, “I moved to the seaside and look what happened,” he said.

“Sorry,” Harry said, flushing.

“What are you sorry for?” Louis said, raising a brow. “I brought the topic up, but in any case living within the boundaries of the city isn’t going to guarantee safety. I can’t tell if there’s magic in a place or not,” Louis bit his lip and he quickly swivelled his head around, trying to see if anyone was giving them odd looks.

“People who don’t have that ability can’t sense _it_ ,” Harry said. “God! I forgot to ask Liam if someone who didn’t know about could sense it if they were aware of it.”

“We should use a euphemism instead of over emphasizing on certain words,” Louis said with a smile, “And you could ask me, you know. I can’t sense it; I couldn’t hear the buzzing that you all talk about even when I knew Liam was using magic,” Louis winced when he realised that he had said it out loud again.

“Or maybe we shouldn’t talk about _that_ in public,” Harry laughed, relieved. “Let us talk about something else.”

They walked around for an hour, talking about everything, dodging around people who didn’t seem to know how to walk, and studied the shops and stores. They turned back when the smell from a bakery started off a rumbling in their stomachs. They came back in time for lunch, and later in the evening, Harry touched and tasted Louis’ warm, flushed skin and held him tight as he made love to him.

Sunday morning passed in haze of sweet, gentle intimacy. Harry ached in many, many places and he felt drunk on the play of Louis’ fingers in his body. Harry was too exhausted to do anything but laze after that, and Louis didn’t seem inclined to move from the bed anytime soon. In the evening, Harry cuddled Dusty and read the newspaper as Louis grumbled and feverishly corrected the exercise books.

Harry couldn’t fall asleep quickly that night because worries about what the week would bring as well as excitement about it warred with him. He tossed and turned for sometime before he tired of worrying and he fell asleep with Louis’ hand a soothing weight on his chest.

To be continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear your thoughts and comments!
> 
> You can talk to me on [tumblr](http://steampunk-lou.tumblr.com/)
> 
> The fic post is [here](http://steampunk-lou.tumblr.com/post/162302546674/whispers-in-the-air-pairing-harry-styleslouis)


	3. New Beginnings In A New City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [K](https://hazillions.tumblr.com/) for motivating me and helping with the plot and editing.
> 
> Word count: 7k+

Harry poked at his eggs, cast a vague look around the room, sighed and poked his eggs again. Louis raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Harry chewed on a mouthful of eggs without much interest. His gaze fell on Louis’ hands which were preoccupied with cutting a sausage. Louis had such fine, elegant hands. They were always so precise and gentle. Harry rather liked his hands.

“Though I usually find your ‘sitting and admiring’ thing endearing, staring at me while I’m eating isn’t, I’m afraid to say, endearing,” Louis said, his voice amused.

“You have beautiful hands. I like them,” Harry said honestly.

“So you’ve said,” Louis said with a pleased smirk. “And you look as handsome as always,” Louis said with an appreciative nod at Harry who was clothed in his shirt, waistcoat and trousers.

Harry blushed. He was still unused to dressing like a gentleman, and he was a little uncomfortable, but the heat in Louis’ eyes and his fond smile made him a bit more confident.

“Thank you,” Harry said, not quite looking at Louis.

“Don’t worry, love. Things won’t be quite as terrible as you’re imagining,” Louis added with a gentle smile.

Harry smiled back. “Yes, I suppose. But the fact that I have absolutely no idea about what being a solicitor entails is what worries me,” Harry said, smile disappearing. For a moment Harry thought, _I’m wrong about this_. The thought was fleeting, however, and Harry’s attention was soon diverted by Louis’ placing his hand on Harry’s.

“You’ll learn. You’ll make mistakes; I won’t say otherwise, but then who doesn’t make an arse of themselves?” Louis said with a firm squeeze to Harry’s hand.

“But -” Harry began. He stopped and shook his head. “You’re right. Thank you, Lou. I love you,” Harry said.

“I love you too,” Louis said, his hand squeezing Harry’s hand again.

Louis had to leave after that, for his school duties began an hour before Harry’s work hours. Harry helped him into his coat and handed his hat to him. Louis kissed him and he slipped his tongue in briefly before pecking Harry’s lips once more. After Louis left, Harry was left alone for an hour more and he spent it by pacing around the room, rehearsing how he would introduce himself to Jane Carey, Esq. He had decided on: ‘Good Morning, Miss? Mrs? Carey. My name is Harry Styles.’

Harry worried the peeling skin of his lips as he paced. Now that Louis nor Tom nor Liam nor anyone with the ability to speak were here; the rumbling anxiety in the pit of his stomach churned and frothed furiously. _I shouldn’t have done this_ , Harry screamed inside his mind. _This is not my place._

“No.” Harry said out loud. “This is my place,” he said. “Stop thinking like grandfather did,” he muttered, embarrassed by Dusty’s stare.

Harry took a deep breath then snatched a glass of water from the dining table. His lips were smarting; he had peeled off the skin. Harry went to the bedroom with a sigh, intent on finding the tin of beeswax that he’d brought along. He couldn’t find it with his shaving pouch, which is where he swore he had kept it, and he hunted around the bedroom in search of it.

Louis’ clothes drooped from the footboard, the nightstand and from a chair that stood beside the fireplace. Harry picked them up and threw them into the hamper, and found the tin beneath one of the ties that Louis had discarded. Harry smeared a bit of it on his lips, put on his coat, overcoat, and hat and left the house after giving Dusty a final pat and scratch.

Being outside was miles better than pacing inside a tiny room. Harry was still nervous, yes, but something about the rank smell of the streets, the chatter of the people and the clatter of hooves along with a hundred other things that seemed to happen all at once in a city put him at ease. He was cheerful – as cheerful as one could be when presenting oneself at a new job – by the time he reached the building where Carey practiced.

He didn’t have to wait long to see Ms. Carey, Esq. as the name plate on the door said. It was only five minutes later that the heavyset, dark haired lady who had shown him in asked him to go inside Carey’s office. Ms. Carey was around thirty five or thereabouts in age with flat, dark eyes that stared at him from behind a pair of pince-nez, and had an unimpressed set to her face. Harry hoped that her unimpressed expression was because of the sheaf of papers in front of her that was as thick as a brick, and not due to Harry’s presence.

“Please take a seat, Mr Styles,” she said, waving at one of the chairs in front of her table.

“Thank you,” Harry said and pulled out a chair to sit down.

“My practice is rather new and rather small,” Carey began, doing away with the small talk entirely. “And Mr. Horan told me about your desire to become a solicitor,” she paused.

“Yes. I do want to become a solicitor,” Harry nodded.

“Then I must tell you that I can only give you a starting point. You’ll hopefully learn a bit about being a solicitor – the bare basics through observation. The bar exam and other things are completely in your hands. Working for me, to summarize, will only give you a passing familiarity with law. Do you still want the job, Mr. Styles?”

“Yes. I would be glad to work for you,” Harry said because he knew that any experience that he could get in the field of law would be helpful. He knew about law in the sense that he knew the meaning of the word, and that wasn’t worth anything now was it? Also, he needed the money.

“Alright,” Ms. Carey looked relieved, but the look was gone a moment after it appeared. “Do you know short hand?”

“Er – no,” Harry said.

“It’s a vital skill these days,” Ms. Carey said. “You should learn it.”

“I will.”

“Abigail will explain your duties to you,” Ms. Carey said, picking up her pen and turning to the papers in front of her.

So dismissed, Harry went outside Ms. Carey’s office. Abigail, the woman who had let him in, explained things to him. In half an hour’s time, Harry had begun working as a clerk for Ms. Carey. His duties were rather simple, so there was only limited scope for mistakes. An insouciant boy strolled in right as Harry was proof reading the second letter from a bunch that Abigail had placed on his desk. Abigail rebuked the boy, but the boy was more preoccupied with studying Harry with his droopy eyes. The boy slouched away to the door after his scolding and Abigail muttered reprehensions.

Along with Harry, the practice consisted of Ms. Carey, Abigail and the boy who worked as the page. It wasn’t cosy; the silence in the rooms was jarring, and no one was inclined to talk. _This is how offices work_ , Harry told himself, though he wished that there was some noise in the room other than the scribble of pens and the shuffle of papers or the muffled beat of hooves on the roads below.

The hours passed and soon it was lunch time. Harry kept his papers in the drawer and went outside the door. Employees from the various other businesses and practices in the building were streaming down the narrow stairs, chattering with friends or moaning about their work to any person with a sympathetic ear that they found. Harry followed a group of people being led by a woman who was talking about a charming cafe that was just round the corner. He hoped that charming cafes were pocket friendly too.

The cafe didn’t seem pocket friendly and the board that hung on the wall outside it confirmed the fact, but Harry spied a sturdy, serious looking tea room further down the street that seemed promising. He dodged through the crowds of people who were swarming hither – thither and everywhere, their destination fixed in their minds. He was sweating, overwhelmed by the sheer number of people pressing around him. He had never seen such a crowd of people during lunch hour back in Twilling.

He reached the tea room, which was crowded inside and outside with impatient and hungry looking men and women leaning against the wall. Harry paused, lost as to where he should go and got nudged and elbowed at least thrice. He walked further ahead and took a turn, looking for any place that sold edible things. He found a place after ten minutes of walking, and he collapsed on a chair and feebly asked for tea. By the time he had finished eating and drinking; he knew that he was going to be late because the waiters here seemed to enjoy crawling about like snails and he was also two streets away.

He ignored the page boy’s derisive snort and gave Abigail an apologetic smile when he came back to the office, fifteen minutes late. He had taken a wrong turn which had taken him some time to rectify because all the streets looked the same to him.

“Did you get lost?” she asked, her fingers unstained by ink even though she had been writing continuously for hours.

“Yes,” Harry said, deciding that he liked Abigail, who unlike the page, was not snickering. He took off his hat and coat and sat down on his chair. “The streets all look the same to me.”

“It happens. It takes some time getting used to,” Abigail said, and frowned at the door when the page boy’s snickering took on a malicious edge. “Consider Toby, here. It took him twenty minutes to get some papers from Mr. Ward who practices on the ground floor. Somehow Toby got lost on the staircase,” Abigail’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

The snickering stopped. Harry gave Abigail a thankful look and she looked proud of her wit. He started working, intent on making up for his lateness. He finished with all the letters by five o’ clock. He locked away papers with a key that Abigail gave him, and then attached the key to the chain of his pocket watch. Ms. Carey nodded at him as she left and then Harry and Abigail left after her, leaving the page boy to lock up the office.

The streets were crowded again, but this time Harry had prepared himself, so he was able to handle the rush of people better. He stopped by the bookstore that Louis had shown him and bought a book on shorthand. He walked home, exhausted and pleased by the way his first day at work had passed. Atkins was standing outside the building, stuffing his pipe with tobacco.

“Hallo! Pleasant day,” Atkins said, pointing his pipe vaguely at the sky.

Harry paused on the front stoop and studied the sky. There was still light, but the rays of the sun had deepened to a golden orange colour, and the silhouettes of the birds were stark against this colour. He could hear a cuckoo’s valiant coos even over the sound of a brougham that passed by. The cuckoo’s call was interrupted by Atkins’ loud, phlegmatic cough.

“It is indeed,” Harry said. “Good evening, Mr. Atkins.”

Atkins nodded, distracted by his match that wasn’t lighting up. Harry went inside, a hurried “Good evening, Mr. Styles,” wafting behind him. Harry went to Room no. 6 – his and Louis’ rooms. _Their_ rooms – and he opened the door while beaming like a fool.

Louis was curled up on the sofa with his back against the arm. Dusty was asleep on his feet, and Louis was slashing at an exercise book with disappointment and ferocity. Louis snapped the book shut and flung it away. Louis looked at him and smiled fondly.

“You’re so stunning,” Louis said, as he watched Harry place the book on the side table, and take off his hat and coat.

Heat prickled at Harry’s cheeks and nape, but that didn’t stop him broadening his shoulders or puffing out his chest as he peeled off his coat with more care than he’d ever shown a piece of cloth. Louis snorted, but Harry wasn’t fooled; he could see the gleam of appreciation in Louis’ eyes. Harry started strutting over to Louis, felt embarrassed two steps into his strut, and he walked the rest of the way with his shoulders hunched.

“It’s my turn to cuddle with Louis,” Harry told Dusty, nudging one ear.

Dusty opened one yellow eye and meowed sleepily before jumping down from the sofa. Harry kissed Louis thoroughly, and then began the arduous task of curling his body to fit into the space between Louis’ legs. When he was settled, Louis’ arms came to embrace him and Harry sighed, revelling in the warmth.

“You’re very similar to Dusty,” Louis murmured in Harry’s ears. “But first tell me how your day was.”

Harry told Louis about the bratty page boy, Abigail, and how he got lost. There wasn’t much to tell, and Harry asked Louis why he had flung that exercise book away, which brought on an impassioned speech about how Theresa’s habit of making eyes at Bridgette instead of paying attention in class was having a detrimental effect on her work.

“ – and that flatulent bastard made another three students cry under the guise of being strict,” Louis said, his fingers drumming on Harry’s chest. Louis had segued to complaining about a senior master who was the terror of his school. Harry made an angry noise to show that he was listening, and he focused again on the gentle rumble of Louis’ chest beneath him as Louis began speaking again.

Louis fell silent after some time, his hands stroking up and down over Harry’s waistcoat. Harry had turned his head towards the window, and he watched the sky deepen as the twilight hour set in. For a moment, Harry thought about the sound of waves and the sound of children playing on the beach, and his throat ached. He was distracted by Louis’ hand that was travelling down from his waistcoat and towards the front of his trousers.

Later, after making love, napping, and eating dinner, Harry was so tired that he fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow. The next day, Tuesday, passed much in the same vein with nothing of note happening during the day.

Harry was awakened at night by the sound of whimpers. He was still half asleep, but he listened hard, trying to understand if the whimper was a figment of his dream or not. He drowsed off again then startled awake when he was jostled and a pained gasp rang through the room. Harry turned and looked at Louis with groggy eyes, unable to understand what was happening. His first inane thought was that Louis was dancing.

Louis was silent, except for his harsh panting exhales, and when Harry blinked the sleep away from his eyes, he could see Louis’ eyeballs fluttering rapidly beneath his eyelids. Louis yelled something in a hoarse voice, and Harry realised that Louis was having a nightmare.

“Lou,” Harry said, flinching back when Louis flung an arm out. “Lou, darling, wake up,” Harry said, and shook Louis’ shoulder.

Louis was breathing was uneven; his inhales were shallow and his exhales were rapid. Harry sat up, his heart pounding. He didn’t know what to do when someone had a nightmare and waking Louis up seemed to be the only solution. He grasped Louis’ chin and shook him.

“Louis! Wake up!”

He had to repeat himself twice more and shake Louis harder and only then did Louis open his eyes. His eyes were dark and wild, and he pushed Harry back. Harry stumbled back and he stared at Louis, who pushed himself up with trembling arms.

“Lou?” Harry asked, unsure about the right course of action. He reached out a hand and laid it over Louis’ hand. Louis’ hand was clammy and it shook beneath Harry’s hands.

Louis didn’t reply. The light from the fire was enough to see the rivulets of sweat running down from Louis’ forehead to his neck and soaking into his night shirt. Harry squeezed Louis’ hand and said, “I’ll bring you a towel.” Louis only nodded.

Harry slipped out of bed and first went to the fireplace to poke the coals. Then, he went to the basin and took a towel before walking back to the bed. Louis had taken his night clothes off and was sitting on the edge of the bed. The white, scarred skin on Louis’ shoulder gleamed wetly, and sweat had pooled in the dips of his collarbones. Harry filled a glass with water from a jug and stood beside Louis as Louis wiped the sweat off his body.

“Are you er - better?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Louis said with a quick smile. He dropped the towel on top of his nightclothes that were in a heap on the floor.

Harry handed him the glass of water. “Do you want anything? Should I do something?” Harry felt useless, just standing there and babbling.

“No. Thank you, love.”

Harry bit his lip and picked up the clothes and dropped them in the basket. Louis went over to the cupboard to get another night shirt. Harry hovered around the bed, embarrassed and ready to help in anyway. Louis dressed and went to his side of the bed and felt the mattress with his hand. Louis threw a pillow on the floor.

“‘s damp,” he mumbled, eyes cast down.

“We’ll put the pillowcase for washing tomorrow. I – Lou, can... I want to hold you,” Harry said.

Louis looked up, his lips curved in a small, pleased smile. “Yes. I would like that,” he said and pushed away the hair that was stuck to his forehead with the back of his hand.

As Harry lay beside Louis with his arm on Louis’ chest; he could feel the quick patter of Louis’ heart beneath his palm. Harry tightened his hand around Louis, and murmured: “I love you. Go to sleep now, darling.”

“I love you too,” Louis said; the tense set of his shoulders relaxing.

Harry drifted off to the slowing beat of Louis’ heart.

**

Louis was reticent the next morning. Harry didn’t want to pry, but he couldn’t keep silent about the whole issue either. He was terrible at ignoring and squirreling away unpleasant things until they were out of mind. He decided that he would make sure that Louis was alright and leave the matter at that.

“Lou, are you alright today?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Well. Now what?

“Alright. I’m glad that you’re feeling better,” Harry said with a leading lilt to his words.

Louis raised his brows and Harry deflated. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”

“No. I understand,” Louis sighed. “I get nightmares sometimes. They aren’t frequent, if – if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Louis!” Harry said, shocked by Louis’ presumption. “I worry about you -”

“You need not worry,” Louis said shortly.

Harry glared at him, “Well, I do worry about you. And I don’t care about the frequency about your nightmares. No, wait, actually I do, because frequent nightmares will be detrimental to your health and -”

“God, Harry. I just told you that my nightmares aren’t a cause for concern and yet you keep talking about it!”

“Only because you aren’t letting me speak! Lou, I don’t care if you have nightmares, do you hear me? I just want to know what to do if you have them again.”

“Just do what you did yesterday,” Louis said, turning away.

“Alright.”

Harry snatched up a book and flipped through it with force. A page tore in the corner, and Harry looked at it with disgust. Harry pretended to read and Louis bristled by the window until Mrs. Atkins brought up the breakfast. Other than the scrape of cutlery and the other sundry sounds that was heard during a mealtime, the room was silent. Harry ate methodically, eyes focused on his plate.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” Louis said after a few long minutes of uneasy silence.

Harry looked at him. Louis’ shoulders were hunched a little, and Louis’ countenance was one of contriteness. Harry bit his lip, his irritation melting away and giving way to guilt.

“I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have pried or forced you to talk.”

“It’s alright. Let us talk about something else, like how these eggs are like a rubber ball,” Louis said, smiling a little.

“I was trying to ignore that actually, but now that you’ve brought my attention to it, it is rather difficult to ignore.”

Louis poked the eggs with a disgruntled frown. “It’s useless talking to the Atkinses. They will simply ramble about how simply _sorry_ they are, but really it is so _difficult_ to cook breakfasts for everyone all at once. That’s what they said the first day I came here.”

“These are the small things we never notice when we have our own home,” Harry said, bypassing the eggs and starting on the bacon.

“Our own home,” Louis echoed. Harry watched in fascination as Louis’ cheeks reddened as he said: “I would like that one day.”

“I would too,” Harry admitted, grinning when Louis beamed at him.

Other than their argument in the morning, Harry had a good day. Now that Harry’s worry about his new job had extinguished itself; he found himself in a quiver of excitement and anticipation about the NWS meeting. Friday morning passed in an achingly slow way, worsened by Toby’s decision to play hooky.

“He is fired,” Ms. Carey said, grave and frazzled all at once. “Mr. Styles, would you ask Mr. Ward to lend a page boy?”

Harry went to ask and Mr. Ward was polite enough to send one, but not generous enough to send an experienced one. The boy bumbled, Ms. Carey’s patience became thinner and thinner, and she became ruder and ruder. Harry had a headache by lunchtime and murderous intentions by the time they locked up the office for the day.

Louis wasn’t home since it was Friday, and Dusty refused to leave the nest that Louis had made for him out of old shirts. Harry drank a cup of tea and decided to write out a letter to Gemma in the time he had before he had to leave. He discarded that plan the moment he saw that Liam’s letter had arrived.

He opened the envelope and skimmed through the paragraphs until he came to the important part. Liam had written: _“I’ve been busy lately, so I haven’t been able to make thorough enquiries, but I did ask my assistant to test Meeks. He did a small spell when he was in Meeks’ vicinity, but Meeks didn’t react at all. When my assistant persisted, Meeks told him that he seemed to have a few screws loose. I don’t think he has any magical abilities, so the secret of the Call is safe. I know that this isn’t a satisfactory answer, but I’ll try to investigate thoroughly once I have time.”_

Harry bit his lips as he pondered Liam’s spelling error ridden reply. Meeks not reacting to the buzzing was a good thing, yes, but what if he was good at hiding his emotions? He certainly seemed like a private man who didn’t show his emotions freely. Liam didn’t seem to be worried, and Harry wondered if this wasn’t as serious as he had thought. He decided to ruminate on this matter later.

Harry put away the letter and left early since he wasn’t used to navigating his way through the city, and he didn’t want to be late.

The place where the NWS met was further away than he had expected. He thought about taking a coach, but he discarded the idea as soon as he thought of it. He’d had to open up his pockets wider than he would’ve liked this month, and Harry didn’t want to feel a pinch for cash with half a month still left to go. So, Harry walked and braved the cold wind and the stinging nose and rough lips it caused.

The street where the NWS stood was in a slightly richer part of the city. The street wasn’t ostentatious; it wasn’t the sort of place where people managed to have gardens, stables for their horses and their own coaches and carriages. The buildings stood far enough from their neighbours to offer an illusion of privacy unlike Richardson Way where the buildings stood shoulder to shoulder like a platoon.

The NWS building was a squat, two storied, well maintained building with a footman standing at the door. Harry climbed the steps that led to the door, and said to the footman: “This is where the NWS meets, right?”

“Yes. May I know your name, sir?” the footman asked as he dipped a gloved hand inside his pocket and retrieved a sheet of paper.

“Harry Styles.”

The footman jabbed a spot on the paper and nodded. “The meetings take place on the ground floor, sir. You’re rather early, so you might like to see the exhibition room on the first floor.”

“Thank you,” Harry said and he walked inside.

The landing was brilliantly lit with gas lamps. A massive photograph hung on the wall to the left of Harry. Mr & Mrs. Hawkins, Niall, a lady whom Harry didn’t know and a pack of hounds squinted out at him against the background of a river bank. A placard beneath it said: ‘Founders of the Natural Wonders Society.’

Other photographs and paintings hung on the wall. Harry studied them as he walked towards a room that was at the end of a carpeted hallway that began from the landing. He spotted a young, gangly Liam looking grimly at the camera as he stood before some sort of ruins. The room was large with small, round tables with four chairs arranged around the room. There was a raised platform in one end of the room with around two dozen chairs in front of it. The room was warmed by the fires that were lit in two magnificent fireplaces. There were only three people in the room, none of whom Harry recognised. A grey haired gentleman who had the limbs and chest of a strongman smiled at him and came near him.

“Hello! You are the newest member, I assume?” the man said.

“Yes. I’m Harry Styles,” Harry said, offering his hand. The man gave him an affable smile.

“Ah yes! You’re from Twilling. My name is Henry Burner.”

Harry blinked in surprise; taken aback by the fact the Mr. Burner knew where was from. “May I ask how you know where I’m from, Mr. Burner?”

Burner chuckled. “We were all in a tizzy when Mrs. Hawkins reported that there someone performing a complicated spell on the sea; that’s why Mr. Horan went there too. Now we have a new spell to add to our repertoire.”

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling conscious. He hoped that no one expected anything exceptional from him because he really didn’t know much about magic, and he was still stuck on the second exercise.

“We have a few new members joining us this month; all of them with some form of mastery over magic. It is nice to see the NWS growing by leaps and bounds,” Burner said.

“What... mastery do the other new members have?” Harry asked, curious and anxious.

“Mastery is the wrong word, pardon me. I meant that the new members have had some experience with magic. There’s one lady who can influence the emotions of animals. She didn’t know she could do this, all she knew was that animals calmed down around her when she touched them.”

“That’s wonderful,” Harry said.

“Not so much when she was accused of cheating in the horse races – she was a jockey – and arrested,” Burner said dryly. “They weren’t able to prove anything, of course, but the NWS got a scent and we investigated.”

“I don’t much about the NWS, I’m afraid,” Harry admitted.

“Ah! Never fear, my boy, you’ll learn. Now, excuse me,” Burner said, nodding at someone behind Harry. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Styles.”

“Likewise, Mr. Burner.”

Harry talked with some of the people who came in, and found that the members ranged from the young to the old and from the well off to the less well off persons. He talked with a gruff weaver with a chipped tooth who expressed his relief at finding out that the buzzing that he’d heard now and then for fifteen years wasn’t due to him going cuckoo. Two women wafted inside the room and they wore kid gloves and fine dresses. A pompous looking man plodded in after them and took a seat in a chair that was nearest to the platform. A cluster of people entered just as the clock inched slowly towards 7:30, and then Mrs. Hawkins came in, the door swinging shut behind her. A soft buzzing began as soon as the door shut, and Harry wondered what spell was weaving through the room.

Mrs. Hawkins talked to a few people, and smiled and nodded at others. She walked up to the platform and everyone else took a seat in front of the platform. There weren’t many people – hardly twenty or so, Harry noticed – and everyone quietened when Mrs. Hawkins clapped her hands.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. There was a murmur of returned greetings and then silence prevailed again.

“We have three new members today, and after they’ve been administered their oath, we shall begin our practice.”

Harry startled. _An oath?_

“The oath is simply a precaution,” Mrs. Hawkins continued speaking, “to ensure that the NWS isn’t compromised. There shall be no harm to the self when the oath is taken. It will only prevent you from speaking about the NWS with an intention to expose it or to bring it harm. The oath shall not prevent you from leaving; you are free to leave anytime you please.”

This precaution seemed, well, over-precautionary, but Harry knew that utmost secrecy was needed. Magic was an unknown, unseen, hidden facet of reality; a fact that a majority of the people didn’t know, and something that would have major repercussions if someone decided to blather about it. A cold vice tightened around Harry’s chest when he thought about his grandfather’s drunken babbling.

 _It’s fine. Liam said he will keep an eye on it_ , Harry told himself.

Then Mrs. Hawkins called out the names of the new members, and Harry followed the other two to the platform. Mrs. Hawkins directed them to stand one behind the other on the narrow platform. Harry stood behind a short lady; who Harry guessed was the disgraced jockey.

“Please stretch out your right hand,” she said.

Harry towered over the lady, and as such he could easily see over her shoulder even with the respectful distance between them. Mrs. Hawkins traced her finger in a pattern over the back of the lady’s hand, a buzz started, the lady shivered, and then Mrs. Hawkins said, “Please welcome...so and so,” Harry wasn’t really listening, and then he stepped forward and stretched out his hand.

Mrs. Hawkins traced the same pattern on his hand. It looped and swirled through the entirety of the back of his hand and converged to form a shapeless knot. His hand prickled as Mrs. Hawkins drew the pattern, and once she took off her finger, small, prickling stabs of lightning coursed through Harry, making him shudder. Then, Mrs. Hawkins asked everyone to welcome him, and after giving the audience a smile, Harry stepped off the platform.

After administering the oath to the last person, Mrs. Hawkins said: “Let us begin our practice. The groupings have been changed this week. The tables have cards with your names on them.”

Everyone got up from their seats, and fanned around the room. Harry walked around and found his table near the door. A middle aged lady and man who looked to be his thirties were already seated at the table. They smiled at him as he pulled out a chair and sat on it.

“Let’s wait for...,” the lady – Mrs. Hammond – squinted through her pince-nez at the card that was in front of the empty place, “Ms. Abbot. Then we shall begin.”

Ms. Abbot, a frazzled and nervous looking young woman, came to their table soon. She held a candle in one hand and the NWS book in her other hand.

“Let us begin,” Mrs. Hammond said, having declared herself as the leader of their group.

“Er -” Harry said, “What are we supposed to begin?”

“Your magical exercises, of course,” Mrs. Hammond said, her voice laced with a hint of a sneer.

“When we meet every week, we practice using our magic and then discuss issues,” Mr. Roland, who was sitting beside Mrs. Hammond, said. “Sometimes during practice we are grouped together in such a way that all the persons of the group are on a different level of magical proficiency. This is one such group. Mrs. Hammond is currently doing the fifth exercise; meanwhile I’m stuck on the fourth one. Mrs. Hammond shall teach me,” Mr. Roland conquered a grimace with great difficulty, “and we both shall help you with your exercise.”

“This is such a... novel idea,” Ms. Abbot said.

“Yes. We try to use different methods to ensure that every member is able to master magic quickly,” Mrs. Hammond said, irritated. “Enough of chit-chat; let us begin.”

“Perhaps next week everyone who is of the same level shall be grouped together. It certainly keeps the monotony at bay,” Mr. Roland said, ignoring Mrs. Hammond.

“Really, Mr. Roland. Is it necessary to waste time? After all, we only meet once a week, and I want to use this time to make progress,” Mrs. Hammond said primly. The unsaid _‘Unlike you’_ echoed around the table.

Ms. Abbot shot him a quick desperate glance, and Harry returned a helpless glance of his own. One of the most awful, awkward things was to be stuck between two people who disliked each other. Mr. Roland gave a frosty smile, and opened his mouth to say something snide, but Harry interjected before he could by saying, “I’m having trouble with the second exercise. Would you help me with that, Mr. Roland?”

Mr. Roland’s lips tightened in irritation, but he agreed to help. They began working and the taut tension that surrounded the table dissipated. The low hum of chatter filled the room and it was punctuated by sharp, short bursts of buzzing from various tables.

Mr. Roland had a good understanding about the second exercise and with his help Harry was able to get the knack of conjuring a gust of mind. The wind that he conjured was still weak; the card was blown only a few inches away, but he’d made progress. Mr. Roland gritted his teeth and bore Mrs. Hammond’s sharp instructions, and heaved a sigh when Mr. Burner came to their table to help Mrs. Hammond. Ms. Abbot was distracted, and didn’t seem to be making any progress with the lighting a candle exercise at first, but she started concentrating after a few irate comments from Mrs. Hammond.

Time passed quickly and soon Mrs. Hawkins asked everyone to take a seat in front of the platform again. Harry sat beside Mr. Roland and the friendly weaver, and the weaver began regaling Mr. Roland with some story. Mrs. Hawkins spoke about the new members, informed them about some of the people whom the NWS was looking into, the research that was being conducted currently, and finally the members were asked to put forward anything that they thought of importance.

A few people got up and spoke about commonplace things, and after that the meeting started winding up. Mrs. Hawkins began concluding the meeting, but paused and nodded at someone. “Yes, Ms. Abbot?” she said.

Harry looked behind him and saw that Ms. Abbot was standing, and her cheeks flushed a dark red when she noticed everyone’s attention. “I’m not sure if this is of importance,” she said, her voice rather high pitched and thin.

“Tell us about it, Ms. Abbot. Anything maybe of importance,” Mrs. Hawkins said.

Ms. Abbot was silent for a moment, wide eyed and petrified by the realization that she would have to speak before everyone. Harry looked away; he didn’t want to watch someone struggle with mortification, and besides, his neck ached.

“It’s – it’s about Mayown,” she said shrilly. She fell silent, but when she spoke again, she sounded a little more collected though her voice wavered. “There’s a graveyard there. It – the grave diggers say that they’ve seen ghosts.”

Scattered titters could be heard around the room. The titters died out when Mrs. Hawkins raised an imperious hand. “Please elaborate,” she said.

“It began two months ago when two grave diggers left claiming that the graveyard was overrun by ghosts,” Ms. Abbot said; her indignation at being laughed at fuelling her confidence. “No one thought much of it then; one of them was a souse and the other one was new. Everyone believed that the older one must have decided that his drunken ramblings were true, and that in turn spooked the younger one. New grave diggers were hired.”

“Did the new grave diggers also claim that they saw ghosts?” someone said.

“Yes,” Ms. Abbot said. “There weren’t any problems at first, but then they too said that the graveyard was haunted.”

An uneasy murmur rose up as people whispered with each other. Harry studied Ms. Abbot’s grimly set jaw, the pale cast of her skin that was marred by fading red splotches of a blush, and the defiant tilt of her head. She seemed to believe what she was saying, and though Harry’s first instinct was to scoff at everything that she’d just said; he couldn’t. Harry knew that magic existed; he knew that mermen did live in the sea, and he practiced magic with his own hands. Who was to say that ghosts didn’t exist?

Harry’s curiosity was piqued, and he found himself wanting answers. What did they look like? What did they do? Were they vengeful?

“It is obviously a terrible prank perpetuated by school children,” Mrs. Hammond’s voice cut through the increasing pitch of the murmurs. She words were gently chiding, like the words one spoke to a child who didn’t understand why he shouldn’t do something.

“Well, Mrs. Hammond,” Ms. Abbot said sharply. “I’m sure experienced; adults would know the difference between a childish prank and something that was truly unexplainable.”

“One of them was a drunk, was he not? Poor man, it would’ve been difficult for him to distinguish between pranks and reality in his addled state,” Mrs. Hammond mocked.

“The new grave keepers claimed the same thing. These were men who were chosen for their mental faculties and the strength of their nerves. I find it odd that they would run away screaming about ghosts swarming the graveyard,” Ms. Abbot said.

“I agree,” Harry said before he could really think about what he was going to say. Heads snapped around to stare at him. “Er - the second point is... interesting, is it not? The first instance can be dismissed as the result a joke, but it happened again,” he said, heat creeping up his neck.

“I agree -”

“The new grave diggers were probably influenced by what happened before.”

“Nonetheless, I feel we should investigate -”

“Waste of time!”

Everyone started voicing their opinions in earnest, and the cacophony that arose was thunderous as it kept rising in volume. The noise of everyone speaking at once drowned out individual opinions, people began raising their voices. It was disorienting; voices, sounds, inflections and accents ricocheted all around Harry and he looked at the platform, hoping that Mrs. Hawkins would take control of the situation.

Mrs. Hawkins clapped her hands, and called for silence, but her voice was drowned out. She repeated her actions, and after the second repetition, and the noise receded as everyone fell silent. There were still some odd murmurings here and there, but they stopped when someone made a shushing sound.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Hawkins said. “From what I can discern; some of us are of the opinion that the NWS shouldn’t get involved, while others are of the opinion that we should investigate as a precaution,” she paused. There a hum of assent from the audience.

“I am of the opinion that we should investigate,” she said. “I’m assuming that this peculiar matter has spread to the nearby hamlets?” she asked, directing the question to where Ms. Abbot sat.

“Well, Mayown and the hamlets are actually considered as a village, but yes, rumours have spread. People say it’s a joke in the morning and are superstitious about passing by the graveyard in the evening, and none of the children have owned up to it being a joke inspite of thorough questioning,” Ms. Abbot said.

“There is no harm in taking precaution then. We need to act before the rumours spread and there is keen interest in the matter, so that if something is amiss then we can solve it. Let us take a vote.”

When a vote was taken; the ‘investigate’ group won with two more votes than the ‘don’t investigate’ group. Harry raised his hand when the vote for ‘investigate’ was taken, and he privately thought that Mrs. Hawkins’ personality may have swayed at least a few voters to their side.

Mrs. Hawkins asked the people who wished to volunteer for the investigation to stay back, and the meeting ended after that. Harry dawdled as most of the people left and when there were only six people left; Harry walked over to the loose cluster that the others had formed around Ms. Abbot. Mrs. Hawkins managed to extricate herself from a conversation with a young man whose limbs flew in every direction without his knowledge and strode over, looking relieved when the man didn’t follow her.

“Before we plan anything, Mrs. Hawkins, I wish to know what we’ll do if we find ghosts in the graveyard,” Mr. Burner said.

“First we need to ascertain the existence of ghosts, Mr. Burner. We’ll use the Call if we see ghosts. I suppose it will work.”

“But you aren’t actually sure if the Call will work.” Mr. Burner said drily.

“The Call works on ghosts?” Harry asked, shocked. He had thought that the Call worked exclusively on mermen.

“We’ll be able to test if the Call works on ghosts too,” Mrs. Hawkins said with a beguiling smile.

“Have the ghosts been seen recently, Ms. Abbot?” Mr. Burner asked.

“A lot of people say they have, but it is difficult to judge the truthfulness of their statement. And, well, most the information I have comes from my mother – I was in Mayown only for the first incident – and she has a vivid imagination. The facts that she has presented are coloured by local gossip and suchlike,” Ms. Abbot said with a shrug.

“Have the police taken any interest?” a lady asked.

“Not at all. The police never care about Mayown.”

“This makes things simpler, though we’ll still have to be careful. We’ll go one day next week; the details will be wired to you,” Mrs. Hawkins said.

Later, after Harry had returned home, eaten his dinner, regaled Louis with the news about ghosts, listened to Louis talk about his day, and cuddled up beside Louis in bed; Harry thought about how quickly the week had slipped away, and how only two more days of his first week remained. He would soon settle into the groove of routine as the weeks slipped by, and the guarantee of it was... familiar. Not soothing in itself, but soothing in its familiarity. The last thought that Harry had before he fell asleep was how Louis’ life would intertwine with his in some aspects and how delightful it would be to have someone – no, Louis – by his side.

Harry fell asleep with a smile.

To be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ghosts have been finally mentioned! Phew! This chapter was actually a part of the previous chapter, but it got too big, so I split them up. 
> 
> I would love to hear what you think!
> 
> My [tumblr](http://steampunk-lou.tumblr.com/)
> 
> The fic post is [here](http://steampunk-lou.tumblr.com/post/162302546674/whispers-in-the-air-pairing-harry-styleslouis)


	4. Knowing Is Not Understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [K](https://hazillions.tumblr.com/) for helping and supporting me.
> 
> Word count: 8k+

Harry arrived early the day they were to go investigating.

He wasn’t very early, no, but other than Ms. Abbot, he couldn’t see anyone in the meeting room. Ms. Abbot gave him a brief smile, and Harry walked over to one of the tables where she was sitting, and took a seat beside her.

“I’m rather excited; I couldn’t stay at my rooms for fear of being kicked out by my roommates,” Ms. Abbot said.

“I am, too. Everything is new and novel for me. Investigations and all this,” Harry waved a hand around.

“I haven’t been here long either. I joined a week or two before you,” she said.

“Did you become aware of magic very recently,” Harry asked. He was glad to have found another new comer.

“Oh, no. I knew about it before; my father had magic too. I could only join recently, however, when I moved here for work.”

“I did the same thing! Well, it was my grandfather who had magic and not my father.”

Before Ms. Abbot could reply, Mr & Mrs Hawkins traipsed in through the door. Mr. Hawkins gave them a beatific smile in greeting, and took a seat on one of the chairs. He was that sort of person who always seemed to be lounging no matter what they did, and that along with his tallness and rail thin body made him look like a serene blade of grass that was rippling in the wind.

“I’m going to take Mr. Burner’s place. Mighty big shoes to fill, eh?” he said.

“Er – why?” Harry asked, surprised. Mr. Hawkins was an ardent participant in the society’s affairs, but he didn’t have magic. Harry wondered how he was going to help in chasing away ghosts.

“Mr. Burner is always so thorough and hearty in his enquiries. Also, he has rather large feet.”

“No – I meant why he wasn’t coming.”

“Oh! My mistake. He’s a public figure, so his involvement is not advisable,” Mr. Hawkins said with a mock grimace.

“Mr. Burner is highly placed in the police force,” Mrs. Hawkins clarified when she saw Harry’s quizzical look. “He’s recognisable, so it is better that he doesn’t come, or it’ll just lead to unnecessary questions.”

“I see,” Harry said. He hadn’t really thought about Burner’s profession before, but now that considered it, Burner did have the air of a man of the forces.

“How do you like Warlington, Mr. Styles?” Mrs. Hawkins asked him after a moment’s pause in conversation.

“I quite like Warlington. It’s – it’s very different from Twilling, but it’s a lovely place in its own way,” Harry said, a little wistful as he thought about Twilling. It would always have a special place in his heart, he knew, inspite of the fact that a chunk of his memories of that place were curdled by the actions of his grandfather. Maybe because his brightest and warmest memories were from Twilling too: days spent at the beach with Tom, days spent with Gemma, finding and bonding with Dusty, gardening...

Harry snapped out of his thought, blushing when he realized that Mrs. Hawkins was trying to get his attention. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“I was saying that Twilling is a charming town,” Mrs. Hawkins said with a raised brow, but she didn’t comment on Harry’s moment of blankness. “More so than Ryson though Ryson has more amenities.”

Harry felt a little irritated at the slight, but he ignored it because it _was_ true. He’d heard that four bullock carts had been once used to transport sacks of smelling salts to Ryson. Whereas in Twilling people mostly drank brandy in case of a shock – or got slapped – and everyone used the same mix of tobacco because the local tobacconist didn’t stock any other kind, and the one that did was far away.

“Yes, that is true,” Harry said.

“It was certainly more peaceful – oh, here they are,” she said, nodding at the two people who entered the room.

Harry got up to push two chairs from another table to theirs. When all were seated and after Mr. Hawkins’ presence explained to the new comers, Mrs. Hawkins began outlining the plan.

“Based on the information that Ms. Abbot’s mother gave us, we found that the out of the first set of grave keepers, the older one – the drunkard – left Mayown to stay with his son who lives somewhere else. The other grave keeper is still in Mayown, so Mr. Styles and Ms. Abbot, you both will have to question him.”

Harry blinked. “Ask questions?” he asked.

“Yes, questions,” Mrs. Hawkins said.

“What questions – I mean, are we supposed to approach him and say ‘Tell us about the ghosts?’” Harry shot an alarmed look at Ms. Abbot, hoping that she would protest this too. Ms. Abbot however looked unperturbed.

“He does a few odd jobs for my mother, so I’m sure we’ll manage to question him as we make conversation about... raking the leaves,” she said.

“We’ll provide you with a list of questions, of course,” Mr. Hawkins said, lazily plugging tobacco into his pipe. “We thought it best that the young chap should be questioned by someone he knew.”

“Al – right,” Harry said with great reluctance.

“Now, the drunkard’s younger son took over for his father along with the local... daredevil. The daredevil refuses to believe that he saw ghosts, and is insisting that what he saw were ‘ _vapours_ ’,” Mrs. Hawkins rolled her eyes.

Harry thought it was rather rude to keeping referring to a man they didn’t know as a drunkard, but he held his tongue. Mrs. Hawkins continued speaking:

“He is now out of the question. The drunkard’s son carries on as the sole grave keeper nowadays; perhaps because he’s being offered a hefty salary, who knows. We can’t speculate about an unknown man’s motives,” Mrs. Hawkins said.

“But he was very amenable to a bribe,” Mr. Hawkins said, and blew out a plume of smoke.

“So, Mr. Hawkins and I will speak to him. Mr Jones and Ms Ives, you’ll have to keep watch over the graveyard until the four of us come there. Then we’ll keep watch for a few hours, and if we don’t come across ghosts then we’ll use the Call and then come back.”

“Are you sure the Call will work on ghosts, Mrs. Hawkins,” Ms Ives asked in a soft, wispy voice. She looked soft and wispy, too.

Mrs. Hawkins didn’t answer immediately. She seemed hesitant when she said, “We’re extrapolating that the Call will work on all forms of magical creatures based on the information we have.”

“My grandfather said that the Call works on all sea creatures. He never said anything about all forms of magical creatures,” Harry frowned in thought. “Shouldn’t we have another plan too?”

“The thing is, Mr. Styles, we have very little information to guide our investigation and plans,” Mr. Jones said, turning to Harry. He had uniform features, Harry noticed, flat and smooth without any hint of an expression. His voice reflected his countenance. “We’re stumbling along blindly.”

“You seem to think that this is a useless endeavour,” Ms. Abbot’s frostiness made Harry wince. He could feel the tension tick up a notch.

“I always help the society,” Mr. Jones said, and fell into a belligerent silence.

“Now, now,” Mr. Hawkins began in soothing, pouring oil over troubled waters tones, “We don’t have much information, yes, but Mr. Styles, you and your grandfather only used it on sea creatures because well, you lived near the sea, yes? But spells can be used in a variety of situations, am I correct, dear?” the question was directed at Mrs. Hawkins with a fleeting look of pride that Harry caught before another plume of smoke obscured Mr. Hawkins face for a moment.

Mrs. Hawkins’ hands were clasped in front of her like she was praying, but by the deep furrow between her brows, Harry could tell that she was more likely to curse all of them than pray for patience. “Yes. Spells cause something to happen, no matter what the situation is, no matter what the creature is.”

“So the Call will work on all creatures?” Harry asked.

“Yes, it should.”

“Now that that’s settled; we should leave soon,” Ms. Abbot said.

“We’ll provide you with dark lanterns,” Mr. Hawkins pushed his chair away from the table. “The signals are: one flash for ‘we’re here’, two flashes for ‘come here’, and three for ‘stay there or stop.’ If anything untoward happens we’ll leave the graveyard immediately.”

Harry got up from his chair, and followed the others as they trooped behind Mr. Hawkins to the entranceway. Half a dozen lanterns were kept on a side table near the door. Harry picked one up and let it swing on the curve of his fingers. The doorman was standing at attention, and he saluted them as they passed by them. A stagecoach stood in front of the building with two magnificent horses stamping their foot as they waited. The sides of the stagecoach weren’t embossed though it was obvious from the looks of the coach that it was an expensive one.

Harry conversed with Ms. Abbot as they journeyed towards Mayown. He asked her about Mayown, and she spoke about it like people did of something that they didn’t want to deliberately think about or something that they’d pushed away far enough that only vague words remained to say to others. Harry knew because he spoke of his grandfather the same way.

“We call it the forgotten hamlets,” she said with a sigh of despair and contempt. “Warlington and Outer Pinewood became hubs of commerce, trade and industry, but we’re still flagging miles and miles behind with no direction. They clubbed all the hamlets together in an attempt to help by making ‘administration’ easier, but it didn’t help in any way. Everyone my age either moves to Pinewood or Warlington.”

“Oh. Um – that’s terrible,” Harry said.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “Where do you work?” she asked, saving Harry from having to flounder in search of a new line of conversation.

Harry found out that Ms. Abbot worked as a clerk in an office that was nearabout Harry’s place of work, which led to a simple affinity between them. They talked about the myriad eateries that surrounded their place of work. Food always made for a nice, safe topic of conversation, and add to it their common budgetary constraints, Ms. Abbot’s suggestions of eateries was much welcomed.

The paved roads of the city gave way to rough, un-mortared roads as they approached Mayown. The stagecoach began to teeter and lurch, an indistinct grumble was heard from Mr. Jones, and everyone froze on their seats to avoid swaying into another person. The stagecoach bumped a few more times and came to a stop. The stage driver held the door open, and Harry climbed down from the coach to the cold hardened ground, and a gust of frigid wind. The lantern that the driver was holding cast a feeble, watery pool of light, barely sufficient to chase away the falling darkness of a winter evening.

Harry lit his lantern to take stock of his surroundings. The coach had stopped in a desolate stretch of road with no signs of civilization.

“Why have we stopped here?” Ms. Abbot asked.

“Six people entering the village in a stagecoach and asking about ghosts isn’t subtle, is it? We’ll go in separately and stealthily, and meet in the graveyard,” Mr. Hawkins said. “Also, don’t try to be so stealthy that you become suspicious,” he added. It seemed like he was talking from experience, if the haunted look in his face was anything to go by.

“Don’t call unnecessary attention to yourselves,” Mr. Jones’ words were clipped.

“Yes. Let us begin our investigation,” Mrs. Hawkins said, already walking ahead of them.

Harry and Ms. Abbot separated from the others when they reached a branch in the road. Harry followed Ms Abbot through the streets of Mayown. There were few people outside; most of the small, aging houses were silent and dark, and the icy wind carried a cloying stench with it. Harry heard snatches of murmured conversation and he walked past a group of huddled men who paid them no mind, and the frenzied barking of a dog.

After a few minutes of walking, a house with someone leaning against a fence came into view. Ms. Abbot walked towards the figure, and the person straightened and held up a lantern with a sputtering flame to squint at them. It was a boy with a creased, tanned face and young, wary eyes. He was clasping a blanket thrown over his shoulder with his free hand, and as Harry and Ms. Abbot stood in front of him, he dipped his head twice in greeting.

“Hello, Greg. How are you?” Ms. Abbot asked, lowering the shutter of her lantern. The shadows that crept through Greg’s form in the wake of her action made him look like a grotesque hunched lump.

“It’s too cold,” Greg said absentmindedly. He was looking at Harry with suspicion. “Who is he?”

“He’s a friend who escorted me. Dangerous roads, you know,” Ms. Abbot said.

Harry wondered how Ms. Abbot was going to subtly question the boy about ghosts during a night-time meeting in the middle of nowhere. Ms. Abbot must’ve thought the same thing because she said without an ounce of subtlety:

“I wanted to ask you about the ghosts.”

Her words had the effect of a sudden clanging of gongs on Greg. He jumped with a loud swear, flattened his back against the fence, and hunched his shoulders. “No!” he said sharply. “Miss, I’m not supposed to!”

Ms. Abbot clinked few coins in her palm. “Just a few question, Greg. Please?”

Greg’s eyes fell on her hand, and he took a deep breath, exhaled through his mouth; the air whistled through a gap between his teeth. “I – I don’t know. What about him?” He nodded at Harry.

“He won’t tell anyone anything.”

“Yes,” Harry interjected just for the sake of contributing something to the conversation. “I won’t mention this to anyone.”

“Tell us about that day. When you first saw the ghosts,” Ms. Abbot said.

Greg was quiet for a moment, his eyes focused on the ground. “It was around this time. Sir was napping ‘cause he’s old and it’s night and -” Greg paused, breathed in deeply and gave another whistling exhale.

“Sir was sleeping and then?” Harry asked, assuming that sir was the drunken grave keeper.

“I was keeping watch, taking a round. Then the whispering started.”

“Whispering?”

“I was almost back at the cottage, and – an’ it sounded like many people were whispering. I turned an’ saw a gent standing there,” Greg’s voice was high pitched with emotion, and he was tugging the blanket with his clasped hand in agitation.

Harry leaned forward, his body moving of its own accord. His beat of his heart was quickening, and his stomach flipped as he heard the sound of Ms. Abbot’s lantern creaking.

“He was standing over his grave, talking, talking, talking – others came too, they all were all just standing and talking.”

“The gent was standing over his own grave?” Ms. Abbot asked in a hushed voice.

“I’ve seen him around. That’s his grave alright.” Greg was distracted by the interruption. “I forgot he was...dead. Then I remembered.”

“What did he look like?” the question was hurried, thrill and fear made Ms. Abbot’s words tremble.

“Himself. He looked like himself, that’s why I forgot. Er - except he wasn’t. He moved with the wind. It was...awful.”

“And then?” Harry was shivering. The wind was unrelenting.

“Sir came to see what was happening. He knew at once that they were all wrong. We ran.”

“What were they whispering?”

Greg shook his head. “They were speaking all at once. I was too far off to hear anything, anyway.”

No one said anything for long moments. Other dogs had begun barking, the noise was distorted by the way the wind carried it. Greg looked uncomfortable, and he fidgeted with the blanket. Harry could not think of anything to ask. Hawkins had forgotten to give them the list of questions.

“People say it is because Mayown is dying,” Greg said. “It’s attracting the ghosts.”

“What?” Harry frowned at Greg, trying to make sense of what _attracting ghosts_ meant. Was this a hint?

“Mayown is becoming a ghost town ‘cause people keep leaving. The ghosts come ‘cause the living are only a few and -”

“That’s nonsense,” Ms. Abbot snapped.

“People say that, Miss,” Greg said, affronted by the cool dismissal. He stood up straighter. “I have to go.”

Ms. Abbot dropped the coins on Greg’s calloused, gloveless hand. Greg walked away quickly, his blanket billowing like a cape behind him.

“The graveyard is this way,” Ms. Abbot pointed the way with her lantern.

Harry walked in silence beside her. He was trying to imagine what the ghost must’ve looked like. Exactly like the person in their mortal form, but different in every other way. He thought of his grandfather floating in the air, whispering god knows what. Harry shook his head and spoke to dispel his thoughts. “That was quiet a tale.”

“Do you think Greg was lying?”

“No – no. His account of what happened was strange. And frightening.”

“Greg is unimaginative. He drives my mother mad sometimes. But other than that ‘Mayown is dying, so ghosts have come’ tosh, I think what he said was true.”

“Yes. In any case, we’ll be crosschecking what he said with what the new grave keeper says.”

Ms. Abbot was lost in her thoughts and didn’t reply. She sighed heavily and her breath turned to mist. Harry watched it dissipate with rising dismay. He really didn't want to stand in a graveyard with the temperature dropping so low.

“A part of what he said was true though,” Ms. Abbot said. “Mayown is dying. So many empty houses.”

Harry didn’t say anything and Ms. Abbot didn’t seem to mind his silence, so they kept walking without any further conversation.

**

The fence that surrounded the graveyard was forgotten and unrepaired. Half of it was missing, and the other half creaked and shook, waiting for one strong gust of wind to blow it to the ground. The atmosphere here was heavy and crushed upon Harry’s shoulders. Wind groaned through the bare branches of trees and dry leaves crackled beneath Harry’s feet. The grounds were unkempt: the grass was uncut and the fallen leaves were left uncleared.

“I’ll signal,” Harry said a bit too loudly. This place was too eerie for his liking, and he wasn’t going to add flavour to the already sinister atmosphere by whispering and creeping on his toes. Harry closed the shutter of his lantern and opened it again.

“There!” Ms. Abbot said, pointing to a spot where there was a quick flash of light.

The others were standing in the protection of a copse of trees. Everyone was in varying states of discomfort, especially Mr. Jones, who looked liked he had embraced the ways of a block of ice, the way he stood still and unblinking.

“What did that boy tell you?” Ms. Ives asked, shuddering even though she was lost under piles of fur.

Harry and Ms. Abbot gave a short narration of what Greg had told them, including the theory that he said other people believed. Mr. Jones was roused from his ice block impression by this bit of stupidity. He scoffed and snarled out a curse.

“Damned fools with their superstitions!” he said.

“It’s quiet an interesting theory that,” Mr. Hawkins said. “I wonder if -”

“The current grave keeper said the same things about the whispering and the ghosts,” Mrs. Hawkins interjected, sensing a brewing disagreement. “He also said that he leaves the graveyard when he hears the whispering start, so he can’t give us a more specific description of the ghosts,” she said dryly.

“Shall we use the Call and then leave?” Ms. Ives asked, and Harry’s heart lightened at the prospect of leaving this godforsaken graveyard.

“Yes, we should do that before it gets colder,” Harry said.

“Greg said that the ghosts appeared around this time. So, wouldn’t it be wise to stay and keep watch for some time?” Ms. Abbot said. Harry tried very hard to not gnash his teeth.

“Yes. We’re here, anyway. We’ll have irrefutable proof if they appear,” Mr. Jones said.

Mr & Mrs. Hawkins agreed leaving Harry and Ms. Ives outnumbered. A sudden, burning longing for the warmth of Louis’ body as he held Harry, and the sure warmth of a fire made the annoying and ceaseless wind bitterer. Harry sighed and wished he could extract every bit of curiosity that he had in him because all it seemed to do was lead him into trouble.

They paired off: Mr Hawkins loped off with Mr. Jones; Ms. Ives went along with Ms. Abbot; Harry remained with Mrs. Hawkins beside the copse of trees. The branches danced from side to side when a fierce gust of wind howled through the graveyard. He smelled earth and rotting leaves.

Clouds obscured a half waxed moon, plunging the graveyard into deeper darkness. Harry’s lantern was closed while the shutter of Mrs. Hawkins’ lantern was open an inch. Harry strained his ears and eyes for any signs of whispering or ghosts, but there was no sign of either.

“Mr. Styles,” Mrs Hawkins said after a quarter of an hour had passed. “Dr. Payne mentioned in passing that you thought your grandfather had revealed magic to his friends.”

Harry blinked, taken aback by the unexpected topic. He darted a look at Mrs. Hawkins, who was standing a few feet away. “Er – yes?”

“We talked to your grandfather once; when we had just started the NWS,” she said.

“Yes, I know.”

“He didn’t tell us anything, and we had so many things to explore that we put Twilling behind us. But, we did make enquiries about him, and we found that -” she hesitated. “We found that people thought that your grandfather was very peculiar,” she said slowly.

Tendrils of ice were slipping down his spine. Harry’s breath caught. “Very peculiar? Is that what they said?”

“I –no. The word they used was – well, deranged,” she was embarrassed by the word.

Harry licked his dry lips, and breathed in the sharp, clear air. Deranged. Harry was sure that people must’ve used more colourful words to describe his grandfather, and he had suspected for long that his grandfather was considered mad. Tom had made cutting remarks, and Gemma had spat that on John’s face when she had left home. John had never endeared himself to anyone; it was to be expected. But, hopefully no one had any suspicions about magic.

“So, you think that since my grandfather was considered to be deranged, no one would believe him if he talked about magic?”

There was a weighted pause before Mrs. Hawkins replied. “Yes. Dr. Payne wasn’t with us then, and he was unsure as to how to tell you about what he’d found from his enquires. I told him that I’ll tell you.”

Harry sighed in relief. “Thank god.”

“I’m sorry for being indelicate,” Mrs. Hawkins said stiffly.

“Don’t apologise, Mrs. Hawkins. I knew – vaguely perhaps – that my grandfather was spoken about this way. No one said it to my face though.”

“They often don’t, but somehow we always end up hearing echoes of it.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “Though I do wish he hadn’t been indiscreet.”

Another hesitant pause. “I suppose he made those inadvisable comments about magic due to loneliness.”

“Loneliness? No, I don’t think so,” Harry said. “He had a retiring, aloof nature and consequently few friends, but he did have a few. It was probably the drink,” he said before he could stop himself.

“Alright,” Mrs. Hawkins said in a way that signalled the end of the conversation.

Harry blushed at his own indiscreetness. What on earth had possessed him to talk about John’s drinking habits? God. There was no reason for her to know about his family’s dirty linen, though she must have a fair idea from the investigation.

His cheeks still prickling, he fumbled with his pocket watch before remembering the lack of light, and he put it away. He looked around the graveyard, but the graveyard slumbered in silence, looking as unremarkable as it had a few minutes ago. _Perhaps the ghosts dislike the cold,_ Harry thought, despairing.

Time crawled. Harry trembled as a glacial breeze blew down his neck with viciousness. His ears felt like chips of ice, his nose burned, and he felt like an icicle wrapped in an overcoat. He shifted his weight from leg to leg and resigned himself to misery. Then, after some minutes had passed, he heard a gasp from Mrs. Hawkins.

“It’s snowing!”

Harry’s momentary excitement died. A pinprick of coldness settled on his nose. Any eagerness he’d had to see a snowfall vanished. He had hoped to see a snowfall when in the warm comfort of his room, and not here, while being exposed to the elements and also trespassing.

“Signal for the others to come here,” Mrs. Hawkins said, already signalling in the other direction.

Harry signalled and what followed was a whirl of action. There was quick discussion in which they decided to use the Call and leave. They Called and left the graveyard, the buzz of the Call droning on in a comforting way behind them. The stagecoach rattled towards Warlington, and Harry leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

**

Louis was full of vim and vigour the next morning. He hummed as he waltzed out of the bedroom after dressing for the day.

Harry rested his head on the windowsill and watched the snow. His eyes were gummy; his head throbbed with a faint ache. He hadn’t been able to sleep well yesterday inspite of his exhaustion; his sleep had been restless with hazy, murky dreams spinning in his mind.

“Good morning!” Louis said. The armchair’s cushion gave a groan as it always did when someone sat on it – it probably felt too old – then there was a sound of newspapers rustling.

“Good morning,” Harry said.

“Good morning,” Louis said. “Tell me everything about your night time adventure.”

Harry turned around, yawning into his hand. He gave a short summary of what Greg had told them, and then complained at length about the utter futility of keeping watch over the graveyard. “It was a bloody waste of time, you know. We could’ve Called and left, but they wanted _proof_ ,” he spat.

“Those ghosts sound a little moody. They come to haunt based on their whims, don’t they?”

“Damned nuisance. I don’t think anyone cares about Mayown and its ghosts,” he said, having worked himself up into a proper frenzy. “Except for the Hawkinses and Ms. Abbot.”

“But Mrs. Hawkins’ worry is not unfounded. The news hasn’t spread yet, but if it does; a seed of suspicion is planted.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, curious.

Louis shook his head. “I’m not making sense, and I don’t know how to arrange the thoughts I have, but I agree with Mrs. Hawkins’ desire to hide magic, and to control any situations that may arouse suspicions.”

“Well, I agree with what you said. I don’t agree with their methods, however. They seem unnecessarily... complex at times.”

“Yes.” Louis folded the newspaper and put it aside when there was a knock at the door. Franny brought in the breakfast, and Harry thanked her before she left.

“I think that Jones is the ghost,” Harry said as he poured himself a cup of tea. “The way he was standing at the graveyard; it chilled me to the core.”

“It was probably the wind,” Louis said with a smile.

Harry huffed and made a face at him. He sipped his tea and found it weak. Whatever cheer he’d mustered up withered away. He wouldn’t be surprised to know that Atkins had used a handful of leaves to brew tea for all the lodgers. He didn’t have much of an appetite, and he answered Louis’ concerned look with a half hearted, “Too tired.”

The day was darkened by the grey gloom and thunder of Harry’s foul mood. It had stopped snowing, but the air was freezing, and the roads were mottled with puddles of slush. Harry wished he could go home the moment he sat on his chair because his headache had become pounding and vicious.

 _It’s because of the sleepless night I spent yesterday,_ he rationalized as he began his work. _A night’s sleep shall set me right._

Harry concentrated on his work. He was almost successful in his efforts of not mucking things up and Ms. Carey’s irritated tuts were not high in number. He wasn’t hungry even by lunch time, but he joined the friends he’d made all the same. Most of the people in the group worked as clerks for Mr. Ward; the solicitor who had his establishment downstairs. Harry had made their acquaintance sometime between his visits downstairs to collect the temporary, forgetful page boy whom Mr. Ward had loaned to Ms. Carey.

They reached a tearoom well before a whole gamut of people could come bursting inside. Harry restrained himself to a simple, light meal. The conversation spun around the same topics that it did everyday: matters related to work, family, and Mr. Ward’s crabbiness. Harry didn’t speak much when it came to work or employers because he still stumbled blindly when it came to work, and he didn’t care much about Ms. Carey. He did talk about Gemma, Louis and Tom when the conversation turned to family.

He had just finished his meal when Mrs. Grey, the oldest in their group, leaned forward and said, “Mr. Styles, I think you should know this.”

“What should I know?” Harry asked.

The fine lines on Mrs. Grey’s dark skin deepened as her eyes softened with an apologetic look. “It seems that Ms. Carey is thinking of selling her practice here, and moving somewhere else.”

Harry froze. “Selling?”

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Grey nodded. “I only know because Mr. Ward is thinking of purchasing it and giving it to his son when he passes his bar exam.”

“But why? That’s sudden-” Harry broke off, a list of how this would affect him already forming in his mind.

“Oh – I didn’t mean to scare you! It’s still ages away, and nothing is set in stone-”

“For god’s sake Delilah. You’ve scared that poor boy,” Mr. Johnson growled.

“I was merely warning him, Victor,” Mrs. Grey said, irritated. “Like I said, noting is set in stone. She won’t sell anytime soon, don’t worry. She is just thinking about it now.”

“All the same, you ought to prepare yourself. There’s no guarantee that Ward the younger will retain you. Take one of those typewriting courses. You’ll get a better paying job that way,” Mr. Johnson said.

“I – I intend to give the bar exam,” Harry said, unsurely.

A look of surprise flitted through Mrs. Grey’s face. “The bar exam? Are you sure?”

“At some point?” he sounded even more doubtful now.

“Well...” Mrs. Grey began.

Later, Harry told Louis everything that Mrs. Grey had told him about the bar exam. He was unsure of what he was feeling. He was worried, yes, because living in Warlington was an expensive affair, and not having a job was untenable. And he knew he would be fired because of his inexperience if Ward’s son took over the practice. He was well aware that he’d only got this job because of Niall’s influence, and also because Ms. Carey couldn’t afford to pay for a more experienced clerk. Yet, he was strangely unworried at the same time because it was a relief somehow. His blasé attitude to this shocked him.

“She thinks giving the bar exam is inadvisable?” Louis asked, watching him with intent eyes.

Harry didn’t meet his gaze. He kept his eyes on fingers as he petted Dusty’s ears. “Impossible, more like. She didn’t say so – she kept saying ‘I’m sure you can, Mr. Styles’ and ‘It’s up to you’ but the gist of her little lecture was that the bar exam is impossible for me. The study related things are too expensive, the time it takes is too long, I have non-existent connections within the field, and there’s no guarantee that I’ll pass the first time.”

“But you won’t even try? It’s just her opinion, you know. It doesn’t mean that it’s all true.”

Harry shook his head. Perhaps he wasn’t blasé, but rather feeling hopeless. Was it too soon for hopelessness? “No. I know I won’t be able to do it.” He nudged Dusty from his lap, stood up and paced down the length of the room.

“It struck me when I was listening to Mrs. Grey that I didn’t actually know anything about being a solicitor,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “She showed me some of the material that is to be studied. I was alright in school – not really a stupendous student, but better than some of the dullards who came... and that isn’t enough. Absolutely not enough.”

“I can’t believe you’re giving up on this after hearing a busybody’s fifteen minute lecture.” Louis’ stood up too, and every line of his body vibrating with irritation.

“She isn’t a busybody,” Harry snapped. “I have some perspective now, alright! I was foolish before, wanting to do something without knowing anything about it. My plans were idiotic.”

“Fine,” Louis breathed in deeply, and the action intensified Harry’s anger. “What about those typewriting classes.”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, rubbing at his temples. His headache hadn’t faded; it had instead receded to a dull heaviness. “I don’t care for it.”

“Why not?” The question was sharp and pointed.

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Harry said.

“Wonderful!” Louis said.

Harry shook his head and went to the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. His arms were sluggish as he undressed, and he lit a fire that looked like it would die in half an hour. He slipped underneath the blanket and closed his eyes.

His grandfather was right, wasn’t he? Harry wasn’t cut out to be a solicitor. Sneered words echoed in his mind. The exact words were forgotten, but Harry remembered the message. It was but a constant litany of _“Fanciful notions, above your station, not fit for this...”_

He gnashed his teeth. Somehow, even miles away and years later, John still managed to make his life difficult. Maybe not every day, but most days. Harry spread his arms above his head to add a little flair to his wallowing. He drifted off before he could truly wallow.

Sometime later, the door creaked open. Half asleep, he heard soft footfalls and the sound of something being placed on the nightstand. The coal box was rummaged through; the fire was kindled. Then there were gentle fingers on his forehead.

“Harry, wake up,” Louis murmured.

Harry opened his eyes only to squint at Louis with profound displeasure. Louis laughed and kissed his nose. “I managed to get some coffee from Atkins,” he said, and kissed Harry’s nose again.

“I thought times were bad and expensive, and coffee could only be afforded by kings, and what was poor Atkins to do?” Harry said.

Louis snorted. “He hoards coffee in his pantry like gold. I may have exaggerated a little about your health, and also about how coffee is a cure for headaches.”

“I love you very much,” Harry said with ardour as he accepted the cup that Louis gave him.

Harry was surprised to note that this coffee was brewed better than the ones that the tearooms served. Atkins must’ve thought that he was really ill.

“I’m sorry for being so impatient,” Louis said, thumbing the rim of his cup, and keeping his eyes down.

“You’re very ill tempered at times,” Harry said.

“Yes, I know,” Louis sighed.

“There was no one to help me with these things,” Harry said. He smiled when Louis tangled his hand with Harry’s. “I mean – I thought this was a very respectable job, being a solicitor, and this is how I could leave Twilling, and get away from my grandfather. See the world. ” He sighed and looked at Louis. “I never had facts to go with the dreams.”

“It isn’t your fault. Sometimes what we think doesn’t happen, but there’s always something else that is waiting to happen,” Louis said.

“Aren’t you a proper philosopher?” Harry teased.

Louis sniffed. “I’ll let you know that I’m one of the leading intellectuals of today, young Harry -” Harry rolled his eyes. “Yes, I am. Also, I’m too principled to take credit for someone else’s words, so I’ll tell you whose words these are.” Louis’ dramatic pause lengthened as he waited for Harry to ask.

Harry only raised his brow and hid a smile at Louis’ impatient look.

Louis’ irritated huff was more dramatic than his pause. “These are Marcus the Cad’s words from ‘Something Blossoms at Night.’ He says this to himself after his plans for a late night rendezvous with Theodora didn’t come to fruition.”

“Your words don’t seem comforting anymore,” Harry remarked dryly.

“Why not? It did comfort Marcus, and it turned out to be true. He had a successful rendezvous with someone else the very next day.”

“Is this the book with that garish cover with parrots and roses?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll never read it,” Harry said, and shied away from a pinch to his side.

“It is terrible,” Louis said after a short scuffle with Harry in which he’d pinched Harry thrice. “Impossible encounters, murders and strange philosophical observations here and there.”

“No, you’re terrible,” Harry said and got another pinch in retaliation.

Harry put away his and Louis’ cup and lay down on the bed. Louis joined him even though he hadn’t changed his clothes. He would complain about the dastardly creases on his clothes tomorrow, Harry knew. So, he had no qualms in throwing his arms and legs over Louis’.

Snow fell outside. Louis was warm beside him, and he smelled pleasant and sweet. Harry watched the snow through the window, his eyes growing heavy.

“My grandfather was right about me not being fit to go into law,” he said quietly.

“He wasn’t,” Louis said, sounding sleepy. “He said that to put you down, and not based on your interests or skills.”

“Is there a difference.”

“Yes, there is,” Louis’ words were firm and unyielding.

“Alright,” Harry said, kissing Louis’ temple. Louis’ words were comforting even if they didn’t drown out his grandfather’s words.

**

Harry’s symptoms increased in number by the time the week ended. By Tuesday, he was huddled beneath two layers of blankets, shivering and miserable with fever. He sat up on his bed as a coughing fit wracked through him and showed no signs of receding.

Louis entered the room with a bottle. “This should help you.”

Harry looked at the bottle. He coughed, coughed and coughed some more before he could speak. “Is that ink?” he asked, voice as croaky as a frog’s.

“No, it’s my grandmother’s tonic. She brews it and sends it to all of us. It can keep the devil at bay according to her,” Louis said, pouring out a tablespoon of sludge.

“It looks like tar.” Harry studied the bottle. Something floated in its murky depths. Harry’s stomach roiled.

“It isn’t as bad as it looks, I promise,” Louis said as he walked towards him.

Harry could feel the hairs in his nose and upper lip curl and die at the pungent, sharp smell. The tonic smelled so strong that Harry was able to smell it inspite of having a blocked nose. “I don’t think I’ll be able to drink this.”

“It’ll help you sleep. You won’t be able to sleep with all that coughing.”

Harry straightened his shoulders, took the spoon from Louis and swallowed it and drank an entire glass of water in the space of a few seconds. Also, that was the foulest thing he’d ever tasted even if it soothe his throat.

Three days later, Harry woke to the sound of his snore still ringing in the air; something that had become an embarrassingly common occurrence in the past week.

The air in the room was heavy and warm; the embers in the fire place cast enough light for Harry to see that Louis wasn’t beside him. Harry sat up, his throat stinging as he coughed. He took off the plaster on his chest and slipped his feet into his slippers. Harry worried that Louis had had a nightmare. He’d had two nightmares already this week. He drank water from a glass on the night stand to ease that irritating itch in his throat though it didn’t help in anyway.

Harry coughed as he fastened the belt of the dressing gown around his waist, and he paused by the door to wait until an attack of deep, hollow coughs passed. The living room was lit with a gas lamp and was warm due to a crackling wood fire.

Louis was sitting on an armchair near the fire. He was already looking at Harry and his voice was concerned when he said: “Are you alright, love? Should I get you more of that tonic?”

“No, no,” Harry said quickly. Louis’ grandmother’s cold tonic still remained as the vilest concoction Harry had ever had the displeasure to taste and he had taken a dose just before sleeping. His tongue and his nose hadn’t recovered yet. He meandered to the armchair that was opposite to Louis’

“Did you snore loud enough to wake yourself up again?” Louis asked, voice gleeful and smile impish.

Harry was struck by how handsome Louis looked: unkempt and mischievous with the fire light illuminating his features. He let his eyes roam around Louis’ face when he answered with a touch of resignation, “Yes.”

Louis chuckled, covering his face with the book he was holding. Harry sighed and leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. His throat tickled in an alarming way, so he straightened his head. “It’s not my fault. I can’t breathe through my nose,” he grumbled.

“Yes, yes, poor dear. But don’t keep snoring every night after your cold’s gone though. I might have to take up residence elsewhere,” Louis said, amused.

“I _won’t_ ” Harry said with vehemence. “Why are you awake at this hour, anyway?” he asked.

There was an imperceptible shift in Louis’ attitude. There was deliberateness to his repose now, and Harry bit his lip as he watched Louis shift in discomfort.

“Yes. Well, it was a – a disquieting dream, not a terrifying one, but it put me off my sleep,” Louis said, picking at the book. He sighed and opened his mouth to speak, but he kept his silence and casted his eyes away.

“When will you come to bed?” Harry asked. Louis didn’t like speaking about his nightmares, which was obvious and Harry wasn’t going to keep needling him and incur Louis’ wrath.

“Now, I think. I need to be chipper and sharp in the morning to keep those devilish students of mine at hand. Come on,” Louis said, jumping up and placing his book down at the side table that had been designated as the book and letter holder. Louis threw everything about, but never his books. Harry hoped Louis wouldn’t notice the tiny tears on the pages due to Harry’s rough handling.

Louis wrapped a hand around Harry’s waist and Harry leaned on him heavily as they walked to the bedroom. Harry refused Louis’ offers for a new plaster, another spoonful of tonic, and a warm glass of water. He lay down, coughing mutinously, and sighed in relief when his coughing spell didn’t last long. It wasn’t as hellish as it was a week ago – a great mercy – but it also meant that Harry would have to go to work. He wanted to rest, but one more day’s leave meant that his pay would be docked. Harry idly wondered if there existed unions for solicitor’s assistants.

Louis’ frigid toe poked Harry’s calf. “Don’t keep sniffling. It’s irritating,” Louis grumbled.

“I can’t help it, Louis. I can’t very well tell my nose to stop running,” Harry said, and sniffled for emphasis.

“Oh for god – maybe you shouldn’t have stood for hours in a graveyard in winter.”

“It was just an hour, not _hours_ ,” Harry said. He sat up and blew his nose like a trumpet on his handkerchief, and then lay down again. “Now don’t complain,” Harry said.

“Thank you,” Louis said with more sarcasm than what was advisable at this time of the night.

The next morning, Harry sipped the warm barley water that Louis had had Atkins send up, and then stole some of Louis’ tea. He was sure that he would miss the cosseting, after being the recipient of it for a week. He wasn’t familiar with this, in part because he had a strong constitution, but also because neither Gemma nor his grandfather were... well, cossetors?

“Is cossetor a word?” Harry asked Louis as he helped him with his coat. “I don’t think it is.”

“It isn’t,” Louis said as he eyed his overcoats.

“Ever the school master,” Harry teased, and took out a grey overcoat which brought out Louis’ eyes and made him look striking. “Wear this one.”

Harry leaned against the cupboard door as he watched Louis put on the overcoat and button it. “Thank you for – er, taking care of me even though I was unbearable,” Harry said, flushing as he recalled all the times he had whined a lot more than grown men should.

“You weren’t unbearable,” Louis’ voice was soft. “You were irritating, but also slightly adorable,” he grinned.

“I wasn’t that irritating and I wasn’t adorable,” Harry complained. “I was... sick,” he said with all the debating skills that he had accumulated, which amounted to zero.

Louis was laughing gleefully, as he always did when Harry fell for his teasing. “Yes, Harold, you were... sick,” he mocked. Harry huffed, but before he could say anything, Louis hugged him. “Of course I’ll take care of you. Always. I love you,” he said, arms tight around Harry’s back.

“Lou - ,” Harry was overwhelmed by the sudden warmth that swelled and thrummed within him. “I love you too,” he pulled Louis closer and nuzzled his temple. “I love you,” he said again.

Louis kissed him deeply, his lips soft and gentle. Harry sighed as he kissed back, his mind turning in circles with the many, many things that he was feeling even as his heart beat steadily. He had to break the kiss far too soon when his throat itched. He pulled away from Louis’ arms, turned around and coughed.

“I’ll have to take grandmother’s tonic to keep the cold at bay, I think. My throat feels a bit sore,” Louis sounded mournful.

“I’ll take care of you. Always,” Harry said, turning back and beaming at Louis.

Louis flushed, but his eyes were fond and his smile was bright, and Harry lost his train of thought as he stood looking at him. They stood gazing at each other like fools for some minutes before Louis startled and snatched Harry’s pocket watch.

“I need to leave or I’ll be late!” Louis thrust the pocket watch back into Harry’s hand and rushed out.

Harry blinked and tried to understand why Louis was rushing out of the room, which was a difficult task because his mind was still stuck on the flutter of Louis’ eyelashes. God, he was horribly besotted.

“I’ll see you in the evening,” Harry called out, moving towards the bedroom room.

“Don’t forget to take an umbrella. It’s snowing.” Louis’ words were followed by a slam of the door.

Harry was in a warm, pleasant mood as he walked to work. It was a nice day too: the sky was a muted grey, and there was gentle swirl of snow in the air. It was nice to be out of the house after being shut inside his bedroom for three days. He quite liked the snow when he wasn’t standing out in the snow at night, and when he wasn’t sick because of the aforementioned jaunt.

What wasn’t nice was the pile of papers on his desk. It wasn’t as though Harry had expected work not to accumulate, but the teetering tower took him by surprise. Abigail gave him a distracted smile, and enquired about his health though her gaze fell to her work before Harry had completed his sentence. There wasn’t much conversation after that; they were mired in their work.

The week soon ended with nothing of note happening. Harry’s coughing reduced, and he was glad when he put away the tonic in a corner. Though it had helped him a lot, Harry still didn’t like it. His tongue still felt numb from the last dose.

Harry returned from work on few days later to a telegram waiting for him. A cold shiver of dread went down his spine. He couldn’t think of anyone who would send him a telegram, and they usually meant two things to him: someone had taken gravely ill or... died.

He snatched the telegram and read it quickly, the knot of dread in his stomach unspooling and confusion taking its place. The telegram was from Mrs. Hawkins and it said: _Meeting at 7. Urgent._

 To be continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, comments and kudos are much appreciated!
> 
> The fic post is [here](http://steampunk-lou.tumblr.com/post/162302546674/whispers-in-the-air-pairing-harry-styleslouis)
> 
> You can talk to me on [tumblr](https://steampunk-lou.tumblr.com/)


	5. The Ghosts Of Mayown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought that this fic would grow so long, but here it is with a 33k word count. Enjoy!
> 
> ~~I'm lowkey embarrassed that I didn't manage to shoehorn a Two Ghosts reference anywhere though~~
> 
> Thanks to [k](https://hazillions.tumblr.com/) for beta reading this fic.
> 
> Word count: 6k+

The meeting room held Mr & Mrs. Hawkins, Mr. Burner, and Niall. The silence in the room was fierce and sullen. Harry wished that he had walked slower.

“Hallo, Harry,” Niall said. “Come over here, take a seat.”

Four of the small tables had been pushed together to form a longer one. Harry took a seat, and he said, “Hello.”

He got two nods and a distracted “Good evening.” Mrs. Hawkins pushed a broadsheet towards him with a curt, “Please read this.”

The name of the paper was ‘ _The Weekly Oddities_.’ The front page had an advertisement for a tea cup that wouldn’t stain moustaches, and an article that was titled: “The Ghosts of Mayown!”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. He read the article which was written in haste and uncontrolled excitement.

“Maown has a deep, impossible secret. What is that you wonder? Ghosts!” the paper declared.

It went on to talk about how there had been whispers – Harry huffed a laugh when he read it – about strange happenings in Mayown’s graveyard. The author of the piece – who was, according to the said author, an intrepid reporter as well as the editor of the paper – had kept watch for days on end, and he had been rewarded. The ghosts were described, and the descriptions matched what Greg as well the second grave keeper had said. Along with many variations of the spelling of Mayown, the paper went on to theorize what the ghosts could mean.

Harry folded the paper and placed it in front of him. “There isn’t any evidence is there?”

“No. But the Oddities is widely, even if secretly read,” Mr. Burner said. “People must be swarming Mayown now.”

Mrs. Hawkins’ face was grim. “And they’ll see the ghosts which will lead to a widespread frenzy. After that there will be no controlling the situation.”

“But we used the Call before we left. This man-” Harry searched for the reporter’s name, “Berry - Braithwaite could be lying.”

“Mr. Jones saw it too,” Mr. Hawkins said.

“Let us discuss things when the others arrive,” Niall said. “It’s a waste of time to keep repeating things.”

The sullen silence returned. Mr. Burner sat opposite Mrs. Hawkins, looking adversarial. Mrs. Hawkins looked irritated and kept reading the paper, her fingers tracing the words. Mr. Hawkins had hidden himself behind a cloud of smoke. Harry turned to Niall who smiled at him. He pointed to a window and got up from his chair, and Harry followed him.

“Awful, isn’t it?” Niall said as soon as they were at the window.

“Did they have an argument?”

“Oh, it’s a common occurrence. Burner doesn’t agree with Eliza’s methods and Eliza thinks he’s-” he dropped his voice, “- a cranky meddler.”

“I see.”

“How’re you, Harry? How is Louis?”

“We’re both fine, thank you. I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

Niall sighed. He looked weather beaten, worn out. “I’ve been helping my brother with our family’s business. I travelled a lot, and I was yet again reminded that the sea doesn’t agree with me,” he grimaced.

“Where did you go?”

“The islands. They’ll soon be a centre of trade,” Niall said. “We’re trying to get a head start.”

“The islands are supposed to be very beautiful.” Harry was a bit envious. He had seen only two places in the country, and there were so many places yet to be seen.

“The islands would truly be heaven on earth if only they were on earth and not in the middle of the ocean,” Niall grinned.

Harry chuckled though the idea of being surrounded by water on four sides appealed to him somehow.

Mr. Jones arrived just as the clock struck seven. He glanced around the room then sat on a chair without saying anything. He picked up the broadsheet and began reading. Ms. Abbot came next, followed by Ms. Ives. They were given the broadsheet to read.

Mrs. Hawkins ended her summary of the situation by saying, “Mr. Jones witnessed the ghosts too. Will you please tell us what you saw, Mr. Jones?”

Mr. Jones was silent for a moment. He sat with upright in his chair with his hands placed apart on the table. “I didn’t stay in Mayown. I stayed in one of the nearby hamlets. They think it – the ghosts – are a ploy to make money.”

“That could be the case,” Mr. Burner said. His eyes were sharp, and his entire body seemed to be cocked for action.

“No, it can’t be,” Ms. Abbot shook her head. “It makes no sense at all. Whose ploy is it? Who will gain from it?”

“I agree,” Mrs. Hawkins said. “I think we oughtn’t to pay attention to gossip.”

“Just thought I’ll tell you everything,” Mr. Jones said gruffly.

“An admirable strategy,” Mr. Burner said. “Anything can help us.”

“Please carry on with your account, Mr. Jones.” There was a distinct crackle of irritation about Mrs. Hawkins.

Mr. Jones dipped his head in thought. “I went to Mayown at night. Every night I went there for two weeks. Nothing happened.”

“You spent all your time there?” Ms. Ives asked, shocked.

“The ship doesn’t leave for a month; I’ve a lot of time.” Mr. Jones raised his head with a look of reproach. “The Call held, alright. But then the damndest thing happened.”

He paused and took out a short stemmed pipe that looked battered and aged. He took out his tobacco pouch and continued with his story as he filled the pipe with tobacco. “I could hear the Call. I thought this was going to be yet another day of lurking about a graveyard, but then the ghosts... _formed_.”

“ _Formed_?” Harry echoed with the same inflection.

“I thought it was mist at first. The mist... clumped together. Higher and higher and clearer and clearer until the ghosts stood there.” Jones’ hand trembled a little as he struck a match against the side of the table.

In the silence that followed, the drum of rain against the window eaves was audible. Harry looked out the window and into the grey twilight, where a gas lamp’s light glowed like a hazy ball. Ms. Abbot worried her fingers as she looked at the rain with a frown. Harry was glad that he’d brought an umbrella.

“What did you do next?” Mr. Burner asked.

“I left.”

“You left?” Mr. Burner’s lips curled with derision.

“What was I supposed to do?” Mr. Jones growled, his teeth clamped around the stem of the pipe.

“He is right,” Mrs. Hawkins said. She’d taken Mr. Hawkins’ pipe for herself. “How would he know what to do if the Call failed?”

“The Call didn’t fail. I could hear the buzz of the Call along with the whispering.”

“That means that the ghosts aren’t creatures,” Niall said slowly. He knit his brows in thought. “That’s the only possibility where the Call can remain active, but the ghosts are undeterred.”

“I’ve been wondering if the ghosts are...” Mr. Hawkins paused. “I mean, ghosts aren’t creatures – they can’t be, or else the Call would’ve worked.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “The Call only works on things that aren’t human, but ghosts aren’t -” he searched for words, “They are supposed to be souls, right? Restless spirits.”

“Well, the ghosts are appearing in a graveyard; a place where we can assume that the people who passed were properly laid to rest,” Mr. Burner said.

The patronising undertone to Mr. Burner’s words nettled Harry. However, Mr. Burner was right. No one would be buried in a graveyard without the proper rituals. But –

“The graveyard is in a terrible condition. We saw that the other day. Perhaps that is the cause of restlessness,” Harry said though he didn’t think that was the reason. He wanted to be contrary.

“It wasn’t always like this,” Ms. Abbot said. She was aggravated, and she was twisting her fingers together sharply. “The first grave keeper kept the graveyard in a fine condition, and even when he turned to drink, he made Greg work hard for his wages. It’s only after he left that the upkeep has gone downhill.”

“Ghosts aren’t creatures; that’s why they aren’t affected by the Call. They couldn’t be haunting the graveyard because they’re unhappy with how the resting place of their mortal remains is being treated because the haunting started before the graveyard went to the dogs. If we consider these two aspects, then the only cause that I can think of for the appearance of ghosts is a spell,” Mrs. Hawkins said.

Disbelieving protests followed her assessment. Harry was inclined to not believe it either, but what Mrs. Hawkins said made sense. It was logical, and also an appealing conclusion rather than ‘unexplainable ghost shenanigans.’

“A spell,” Ms. Ives, who had been quiet all this time, said. “A spell that can summon ghosts seems outrageous, yet it seems like the only sensible conclusion.”

“Yes,” said Harry. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Occam’s Razor,” Mr. Burner said with an approving smile. “Just what I tell my men to employ during their investigations.”

Mrs. Hawkins didn’t acknowledge him. She turned to Mr. Jones. “Did you notice any other spell at the graveyard? Other than the Call?”

“No. The whispering wasn’t soft. It covered the whole graveyard, and along with the buzz of the Call; I don’t think I could’ve noticed.”

“Spells can get past the Call. If we are to stop this ghost menace then we’ll have to undo the spell,” Mrs. Hawkins said after a pause. “If that’s truly the case,” she added.

“Or find the person who cast the spell,” Niall said, frowning. “Asking the person who performed the spell to undo it is safest option, but we do need to the find the person.”

“Why is it the safest option?” Harry asked. “Won’t undoing it ourselves be easier as well as safer than hoping that the caster undid the spell properly?”

“We’ve never encountered this spell before, and we don’t know how to undo it.” Mrs. Ives knitted her hands together.  “We could do a blocking spell, couldn’t we? But – that would require finding the source, so -” she said.

Mr. Hawkins looked elated. His smile was so wide that his pipe – which he had somehow extracted from Mrs. Hawkins grasp – was at the risk of slipping out from his mouth. It was also a little frightening, what with all the teeth he was showing.

“Wonderful! Ms. Ives. Bravo!” he said, taking out the pipe. “Finding the source would be easier, yes. We’ll just have to follow it, and then once we find where it originates from, we’ll use a blocking spell!”

“It’s quite possible that the spell caster might also be present,” Mr. Burner said. “We’ll have to take precautions about that, too.”

“Why would anyone summon ghosts? It makes no sense,” Ms. Abbot said. She looked consternated, her brows down and her fingers restless on the table. Harry couldn’t tell if it was because of the continuing rain, or because one of her neighbours could be implicated.

“I don’t think we can ever tell with certainty,” Niall answered though the question was rhetorical. “People have so many motivations, and they’re are good at hiding them, so how can we be sure about the reason?”

“I disagree,” Mr. Burner said with a shake of his head. “Humans share a lot of motivations, and they’re relatively simple to understand given that we have some facts to base our predictions on. I think the spell was used out of grief and loss – the ghosts supposedly look exactly like the deceased, don’t they? – and the spell went out of hand.”

“Grief does things to you,” Mr. Jones agreed.

“If you’re willing to extend your stay at Mayown, then we’ll teach you the blocking spell, Mr. Jones,” Mr. Hawkins said.

Mr. Jones shrugged, and the meeting ended.

Ms. Ives left with Mr. Burner in his hansom cab while Mr & Mrs. Hawkins stayed back with Mr. Jones in the meeting room. Harry was about to offer to share his umbrella with Ms. Abbot if she stayed somewhere near Richardson Way, but before he could, Niall approached him.

“We’ve added something new to the exhibition room,” he said. “Come see it, Harry. And you too, Ms. Abbot, if you aren’t in a hurry to leave.”

It was still raining outside; the windows were slicked with water, and the sound of the falling rain sounded like a roar when the door opened to let in a bedraggled footman. He smiled wanly at them and wandered off to dry himself. Ms. Abbot followed Niall and Harry up the stairs.

The exhibition room actually spanned all the rooms on the first floor. All the three rooms were bare of furniture except for carpets. One of the rooms – the main exhibition room – held small stands and tables on which artefacts were kept. On the walls, hung paintings and portraits of places and persons that were unfamiliar to Harry.

He did, however, catch sight of one painting that made his chest ache, and his breath hitch. Twilling’s beach stood out to him from in between a painting of a staid cattle shed, and a mossy, dark well. Harry walked over to get a closer look.

“This is wonderful,” he breathed out, drinking in the swirl of sand, and the glint of sunlight on the water.

“Isn’t it?” Niall said, pleased. “It is well worth the money.”

Harry nodded, his eyes still roaming over the painting. A few boats were bobbing on the sea, buoyed by frothing waves. He swallowed over an aching lump in his throat.

“Mayown’s graveyard will join the ranks soon, I suppose,” Niall was telling Ms. Abbot. Harry turned from the painting, and ambled over to where they were standing in front of an ornate but lopsided tea-kettle.

“Do you collect mementos from all the places you investigate?” she asked, bending a little to study the kettle.

“If it’s possible then, yes, we do.” Niall turned in a short circle, his eyes flitting over every corner of the room. “Sometimes, I’m shocked by how far we’ve come,” a faraway look crossed his face as he spoke. “NWS has changed so much since the day we thought about it; it’s shocking.”

“Did you ever think that NWS would grow so big?” Ms. Abbot frowned at the kettle, and looked away from it.

“No. We thought that it would be smaller, more intimate. But, our understanding of magic and magic-users was limited then.”

Harry shifted his eyes away from the kettle – there was something decidedly unnerving about it – and looked at the painting of Twilling beach again. He glanced out the narrow window, and saw that the rain was quieting down from a downpour to a drizzle. He was about to take his leave when he heard the sound of someone clomping up the stairs.

A moment later, Mr. Hawkins was standing at the threshold of the Exhibition room with eyes that gleamed with excitement, and his body was ramrod straight instead of the usual lackadaisical way he held himself.

“I’ve had the most _startling_ realisation,” he said with a flourish.

**

Harry’s fingers were aching. So were his shoulders and his forearms, but he was more conscious about his fingers, and therefore he was made more uncomfortable by his fingers than his shoulders.

He hadn’t anticipated that learning how to use a typewriter would cause him pain. He persisted because his teacher gave him and the others who learned with him the same speech everyday about how typewriting had dropped gainful employment on the laps of her gargantuan brood of children.

Harry had been wary of typewriters at first. His only experience with typewriters was when a man at the bank counter had leaned closed to it, and had gingerly pressed one key four times with increasing irritation before slamming his finger down, and then cursing in pain. Harry had thought that typewriters were mystical, strange things that could not be mastered easily, but now he found that they were staid, if hulking, noisy and painful.

His eyes watered when the wind lashed against his face. The city was firmly in the grasp of winter. The sky was heavy with the promise of snow, and was a dull, dark grey in colour. Harry hurried as much as he could on the slippery pavement without falling, and reached home out of breath.

Louis had not yet returned from school. He was helming a winter play that his students were putting up, and often stayed late to manage the intricacies of staging a play. Harry undressed to his vest and pulled on Louis’ blue dressing gown, and then put on his own slippers because Louis’ feet were small. He stretched out lengthwise on the sofa. He rather thought he looked like an idle, lounging dilettante who was admiring an artwork, or a lover with drooping fingers that held a cigarette.

Harry yawned halfway through a chuckle. Winters made him sleepy and affectionate; he always found himself yearning to be embraced by Louis. He dozed a little, waking up when Louis burst in grumbling, and with wet shoes. Harry followed Louis to the bedroom with a stumbling gait, and undid Louis’ collar while Louis fussed with the buttons of his vest. He pressed his nose against the cold skin of Louis’ nape, his arms going round his waist, and breathed in. Louis smelled like sweat and the attar his seafaring brother had given him. Harry sighed.

“My god, Dusty. You’ve grown awfully tall,” Louis teased.

“Shut up,” Harry mumbled. Louis shivered when Harry’s breath tickled him.

“Anyone would think that with all the sniffing and purring you’re doing.”

“It’s a _delighted hum_ and not a purr,” Harry groused.

“Alright, I’ll go along with your pedantic excuses,” Louis said, slumping back into Harry’s arms. Harry squeezed him until he groaned, and then let him go with a loud kiss to Louis’ temple.

Louis’ eyes were soft and drooping as he ate, but they were lit with excitement and he waved his fork as he described how the play was coming along.

“I am really lucky with the students that I’ve got in my play. Mary, meanwhile, has two who are tangled in an embarrassing courtship ritual, and another whom the other students dislike.”

“Mary’s students would be...fourteen years old? They’re courting each other?” Harry was little shocked because back in Twilling, children that age were forbidden from courting each other. That didn’t dissuade them of course, but if it was found out then it was quickly put to an end.

“Yes. And it’s as embarrassing as everything one does at that age is,” Louis snorted. “Thinking about the things I did at that age makes throwing myself off a cliff sound very appealing.”

Harry understood. He hadn’t done anything stupid, but he’d spoken things and had held beliefs that made his head ache now. Fortunately for him, Tom had been just as embarrassing, so Harry was saved from endless teasing.

“I’ll get you a ticket soon,” Louis said, stabbing a piece of potato. His fork glanced off the potato. He frowned and pushed it away. “I’m surprised my stomach has held on so well.”

“I think the Atkinses get good ingredients, but then forget that they have to be cooked to be eaten.”

Louis sighed. “Make sure that you charm everybody left, right and centre,” he said, smiling.

“I will,” Harry puffed out his chest, making Louis roll his eyes fondly.

They went to bed early that night. Harry was exhausted; the image of his fingers moving across the keytop of the typewriter blurred and darkened behind his eyes as he drifted off. Louis was curled behind him, and Dusty was a warm weight on his foot. Perfect.

It seemed like no time at all had passed when he was awakened – mind alert and heart thundering – by a pained gasp. Harry rolled to face Louis and he shook Louis’ shoulder to wake him up. Louis’ cries became shriller and louder as he struggled against Harry, but eventually he woke up frightened and confused.

Louis’ breathing was ragged. His inhales and exhales were rough and they sounded painful. He was trembling as he sat slumped against the pillows. Harry picked up a glass of water from the nightstand, but he paused when he heard Louis sniffle. Startled, he placed the glass back on the nightstand, and he gathered Louis into a tight hug.

“Don’t cry, love,” Harry whispered against Louis’ hair.

“S-sorry,” Louis stammered, his shoulders shaking as he curled further into Harry’s embrace.

“No,” Harry said firmly, pressing his fingers tight against Louis’ side. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. It- it’ll be alright.”

Harry heard a small meow from the foot of the bed. Dusty’s luminous eyes stared at him when he glanced around, and then Dusty slinked over to them, scarcely visible in the shadows. The brush of fur against his arm was what made him realise that Dusty was lying on Louis’ lap.

Louis wasn’t crying, but he did sniffle now and then. Harry murmured whatever soft, reassuring words that he could think of until Louis’ shivers ceased, and his breathing slowed. Dusty started a deep, continuous purr. Harry stroked Dusty’s ear with his left thumb and he felt Louis’ fingers flit against his own. They remained silent for a few minutes, their fingers brushing.

“Have you...” Harry hesitated, “talked to Liam about this?”

Louis stiffened, but then his shoulders slackened with his deep sigh. “No. I haven’t.”

“Why don’t you?” Harry said, his lips grazing Louis’ temple. “He would be able to help.”

Louis didn’t say anything. He shifted in agitation and then settled when he rested his head on Harry’s shoulder. The firelight danced across half of Louis’ face, alternately hiding and revealing his features.

“I don’t know how to explain it...this,” Louis said. “I know that people have nightmares and things, but somehow I can never bring myself to speak about it.”

“But _why_?” Harry asked, a little desperate.

“I don’t-” Louis began sharply, but stopped and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “It was awful. I was deliriously happy when I saw my family after the curse broke, you know, but when I went back home after I’d recovered enough, it was _awful_.”

“Awful?” Harry echoed. Louis always spoke of his family in glowing terms, so this was unexpected.

“I was delighted to go home. But, they were so different with me. I understand, I really do, that it was terrible for them, too, but I’d thought that -,” Louis shook his head, knocking his head against Harry’s jaw. He cursed and then kissed Harry’s jaw before rubbing with his fingers.

“You’d thought that?” Harry said, shivering a little because Louis’ fingers were cold.

“Things would be the same,” Louis muttered under his breath.

“Sleep is very important,” Harry said after a pause, his face heating up when he realised that his reassuring words sounded idiotic when they were out in the open and not inside his head. Nevertheless, he rallied. “Undisturbed sleep especially. So, er- you should consult a doctor. Or, Liam? But, please do consult someone, Lou.”

Harry squirmed at the long look at Louis gave him. “I think I should,” Louis said at last. “This is irritating to say the least.”

Harry pecked Louis’ cheek. “This is just a little... hurdle. It won’t change anything. I mean, things do change, but we won’t change in bad way.”

Louis pulled Harry into a hard, fervent kiss. Harry gasped and then kissed back, warmth spreading through every vein. Louis broke the kiss and rested his forehead against Harry’s, his breathing laboured. Harry’s heart pounded away in merry abandonment when Louis sat back, his open, raw gaze settling on Harry with quiet, thrilling intensity.

“You’re so gentle,” Louis said.

Harry’s ears burned. He looked down at his lap, and drew Louis’ hands into his own. “You’re gentle and kind to your core,” he said, eyes a little wet. “I love you.”

“Shut up. You’re going to make me bawl again,” Louis said though he cuddled against Harry said side firmly.

Louis squeezed Harry’s fingers. “You don’t think – I’m not childish for having nightmares about the curse, and other things, am I?”

“No,” Harry said resolutely.

“Alright,” Louis said, lying down and pulling Harry down, too.

Dusty seemed to have disappeared at the first sign of tears and emotions. Harry spotted him by the fire, and tried calling him, but Dusty was unwilling to uncurl his body and walk away from the fire.

Harry settled back against Louis’ chest, and smiled when Louis kissed his nape.

**

The stagecoach rattled through the streets, carrying the same people it had before except for Mr. Jones. The conversation was dominated by Mr. Hawkins and Mr. Hawkins alone.

“What a curious, startling flash of insight it was,” he said with obvious delight.

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Hawkins said.

“Such a simple thing eluded us for so long,” he continued. “We would still be stumbling if it hadn’t occurred to me that the appearance of the ghosts coincided with full moons.”

“Absolutely,” said Ms. Abbot, with quiet awe. “It never occurred to me.”

Ms. Abbot was the only other person along with Mr. Hawkins who didn’t show any trace of drowsiness. Ms. Ives’ head was lolling back and forth as she napped, ensconced in one nook of the stagecoach. Harry’s thoughts were losing their clarity, and were softening around the edges as his eyes drooped with sleep. But, sleep fled when Mr. Hawkins excitedly began explaining the phenomenon of phases of the moon affecting spells. Harry sometimes forgot that Mr. Hawkins didn’t have magical abilities – his knowledge was on par with Mrs. Hawkins.

“Powerful, old spells often drew their power not from the caster but from nature. Earth, sun, moon, etcetera,” said Mr. Hawkins.

“These spells are related to life and death, have you noticed?” Mrs. Hawkins said, now animated. “Things those are bigger than man.”

“Is that why many books have the witches performing rituals around solstices and things?” Ms. Abbot asked.

“Yes, though the way they portray witches is nothing but fantastical and stupid,” Mrs. Hawkins huffed. “No one believes in witches anymore, but they’re somehow always evil. I wonder why.”

“Witch hunts?” Harry said, sitting up a bit. His shoulders were numb from being pressed against the side of the coach.

“Hundreds of people die, knowledge is lost and witches get a terrible name,” Ms. Abbot said. “It’s... unnecessary. And tragic.”

Silence fell after that. Harry was now wide awake, his stomach churning mildly, caused by the half formed knowledge that one got sometimes, knowledge that things were worse than what one knew. Harry didn’t know a lot about the witch hunts, but the way the others spoke about it... he decided to read about it soon.

They stopped at the same place they had before. Mr. Jones and Niall were waiting for them. Mr. Jones steadied Ms. Ives when she stumbled out of the stagecoach, half asleep. The air was bitter and frosty, and dark clouds sailed across the sky though the snow held off.

“You were right, Eliza. There were quite a few outsiders who were straggling about ever since the article was published,” Niall said. “But, most of them left after a week of nothing, and Burner made sure that the rest were chased off.”

“Good, good,” Mrs. Hawkins said. “Are policemen patrolling the streets?”

“Yes, but not many. We’ll be alright if we’re stealthy,” Mr. Jones said.

“Alright then. Niall and Mr. Burner, Eliza and Ms. Abbot will follow the peculiar spell when it comes into effect. Whoever reaches the source first shall cast a blocking spell,” Mr. Hawkins said. “The rest of us will go to the graveyard and give a signal when the ghosts appear and disappear,” he said, producing a long brass whistle.

“Good luck to everyone,” Niall said, tightening the knot of his scarf.

They dispersed. Mr. Hawkins marched ahead, intent and keen eyed, while Ms. Ives and Harry trundled after him. The graveyard was as it was the last time they were here: slumbering and silent, dark and cold. Harry was reminded of the cove, of Louis taking out the merman tail scales from the hollow space in the floor after the curse was broken; the same rank air, and the same cadence of the dripping water surrounding them. Some places seemed to remain the same even though things, people, and circumstances changed around them.

“We should stay together, I think,” Harry said, gazing at the desolate graveyard. It occurred to him then – with the force of a brick hitting one’s face – that he was in a _haunted_ graveyard _waiting_ for ghosts to come.

“We should,” Ms. Ives agreed. “We’re only three people after all, and this graveyard is big.”

“Where do you suggest we stand?” Mr. Hawkins asked.

“Near the copse of trees,” said Harry. “It’ll give us some protection against the wind, and we’ll be fairly hidden.”

The leaves that were strewn on the ground were wet and they squelched beneath Harry’s boots as he walked towards the copse of trees. The smell of wet earth was heavy when he walked passed a freshly dug grave. The buzz of the Call was the only familiar, comforting thing here. The moon peeked between clouds, and then was hidden again. Branches of the trees that made up the copse creaked out a welcome when they reached it.

Harry was reminded of the last time he was here, and how he’d thought about curbing his curiosity so that he didn’t end up in a waiting party for ghosts again. But, he’d be lying if he said that he hated the thrill of this; of standing about in graveyards in the dead of the night with a plan set in motion, and watching everything fall in place. He just wished that the waiting was less and the happening was more because the wind had picked up again.

Harry shivered when the wind whipped against his face. He squinted at the sky to see if snow was imminent, but he found that the clouds had drifted away.

“Soon the moon will be at its zenith,” Mr. Hawkins murmured.

_And then the ghosts will come_ , Harry thought. He frowned at the dramatic turn his thoughts had taken.

Time crawled. Ms. Ives tapped the tip of her umbrella against the ground and hummed. Harry tapped his foot to the rhythm of Ms. Ives’ humming. Mr. Hawkins paced a short distance. Ms. Ives stopped humming after ten minutes and instead started yawning. Harry began pacing to occupy his mind. The wind was intermittent, but not as bitter as it had been the last time. The moonlight was bright, and Harry could see the outline of headstones.

He didn’t notice the creeping mist at first. It was only when Mr. Hawkins made a bitten off sound and said, “Mist. Look!” that Harry saw the white mist that had appeared in the graveyard. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from because it seemed to be coming from above, from below, from everywhere. From one moment to the next, all sounds ceased. Sounds that Harry hadn’t paid heed to before, but maybe it was his breathing that had stopped. In the silence, Harry could hear a faint, staccato buzz beneath the drone of the Call.

The mist shifted with the wind. It thickened and thinned; it pulsed like a beating heart. Harry could see oblong shapes form of their own accord, and the colour leech from the mist that they were made of. His eyes were smarting because he couldn’t blink. He was frozen, rooted to the ground like the trees before which he stood.

“What is happening?” Ms. Ives’ voice was high and thin.

Harry had heard Mr. Jones describe the ghosts, but the words that he’d spoken seemed disconnected from what Harry saw now like Mr. Jones had used words from another language. Harry hadn’t understood then, and he scarcely understood now as tendrils of mist floated here and there, and joined the oblong shapes. The whispering started as the shapes became clearer; their heads, hands and legs gaining shape, gaining the colour of flesh, but with a gray pallor that made it impossible to mistake them for humans. That and the way the moonlight made them translucent, the way Harry could see beyond them.

The whispering increased in volume. It was as though multiple threads had joined to form a net; the whispering of every ghost joined to form a deafening chorus. Harry’s heart made itself known when it tried to leap out of his chest when a shrill whistle pierced the air. He jumped and turned around wildly. Mr. Hawkins was clutching the whistle between his fingers.

“What-” Ms. Ives said, her hand covering her mouth.

Harry looked inspite of himself, and the hair on his limbs stood on end when he saw an elderly woman standing on a grave, and beside her was a portly, aged man. Further away, a boy with long hair floated gently above his grave. Near and beyond were _people,_ dead-eyed and floating, whispering. When the wind blew the whispers towards them, Harry thought that he recognized words, but they were meaningless because his mind was occupied with other things. Namely running.

“W-we should leave,” Harry stammered. His heart was galloping, and he was cold to his core. “We should go.”

“The others will be casting the blocking spell now,” Mr. Hawkins said. “You wouldn’t want to walk past them,” he said, his words taking a hysterical edge.

“Good lord, good lord,” Ms. Ives said.

“God,” Harry groaned when the ghosts moved with the wind, bile creeping up his throat.

This was unnatural; it was beyond his comprehension. His thoughts were indistinct and they were fleeting; they disappeared before Harry could hold on to them. Something tugged under his chest, urging him to run forward, to get away.

It was because his eyes hadn’t left the ghosts that he saw that they were... melting. It felt like someone was pulling strings attached to him when he dragged his tongue through his lips. The ghosts became blurry as the mist – god, was it difficult to understand what was happening – dripped down and down. The amorphous mist was white again, and once it had tumbled to the ground, the wind scattered the wisps away.

Silence was audible. It was dense and it closed around him. The buzz of magic in the graveyard barely penetrated his senses. It was the two shaky blasts of the whistle that made blood rush through his limbs again, a tremor coursing through his body in its wake.

“Let’s leave,” Ms. Ives said.

Harry’s legs were watery as he walked. He didn’t look around to make sure that there were no ghosts around. He kept his eyes on the ground, and rushed as much as he could on shaky legs. They reached the stagecoach in the blink of an eye.

Mr. Hawkins cleared his throat. “That was more terrifying than I thought it would be.”

“I never thought that the ghosts would look pretty, but those were just freakish,” Ms. Ives shuddered.

“Mist doesn’t do _that_ ,” Harry said with vehemence. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to think of mist as a harmless thing,” he muttered.

“I wish we were able to gather a sample of the mist. Is that possible?” Mr. Hawkins said, having recovered from the horror of seeing ghosts in a minute. “I’ll ask Summerhayes about it. Maybe she’ll even arrange to have the sample analysed at one of those science laboratories.”

Harry didn’t deign to give a reply. Mr. Jones arrived. He studied them, and gave them a minute nod. Harry fancied that it was a salutation for what they’d gone through.

“Where are the others?” asked Ms. Ives.

“They’re with the man who cast the spell,” Mr. Jones said. “Trevor, his name is. Poor man. He’s dying and he wanted to see his dead wife once more.”

“What?” Mr. Hawkins said.

Mr. Jones gave him a flat look. “He’s dying,” he said slowly. “And his wife died a few months prior. Said he thought he’d see her in his home, but it didn’t turn out like that.”

“How did he know how to cast the spell?” Mr. Hawkins demanded.

“I wouldn’t know. I left. I don’t like this place. It’s sad.”

“Isn’t it?” Ms. Ives said. “He must be grieving deeply if he wanted to see the ghost of his wife.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “It seems like an erratic thing to do, but if he was willing to do this then... I don’t think we can fathom what he is feeling.”

It felt wrong to talk about Trevor’s grief, to analyse it coldly to find answers. He had been truthful when he’d said that they couldn’t fathom what he was feeling because Harry had never known this sort of all consuming grief. He had mourned his mother, yes, but he had been a child then, and the grief had passed and he now simply missed her. When his grandfather had died, he’d passed the day in a haze of shock, but he hadn’t mourned though he’d worn a black armband.

Mr. Hawkins sighed. “I think I’ll wait for the others. Please tell me the directions to this man’s place, Mr. Jones. Is anyone else coming with me? No? Alright then, you can take the stagecoach. Change the horses and send the coach back.”

“What will you do?” Harry asked. “With – er, Mr. Trevor? How will you help him.”

“I don’t have enough information to say anything. Though, I suppose if Mr. Trevor still wants to see the ghost of his wife then we can make some arranges. But, I’m not sure,” Mr. Hawkins said, his face creasing.

Harry nodded.

The journey to Warlington was silent. Thoughts of the ghosts and Mr. Trevor troubled Harry. He hurried home, undressed rapidly and then crept into the warm cocoon of blankets. He held Louis tight to him, taking comfort in his warmth. He let the rhythm of Louis’ breathing lull him to sleep.

**

Harry had forgotten the mind numbing nature of school functions. He was now sitting through a very cerebral play, and he had lost track of the metaphors or something after the fifth one, so the play didn’t make much sense to him. Before this there had been four songs, three dances, three poetry recitations. There were three more things to get through before Louis’ play came up.

 The stage was set for Louis’ play after a poetry recitation ended abruptly when the child delivering the recitation almost expired with terror when he saw the audience staring at him. He burst into tears and ran off the stage. Harry’s heart panged for the child.

Harry sat up straight when the curtains opened for Louis’ play. He readied himself to cheer at the top of his lungs. And he did too, paying no mind to the surprised looks given to him by the others. Later, after the function ended, Harry went in search of Louis, and he found him deep in conversation with the boy who had run off from the stage. He smiled when he saw that the boy was beaming at Louis.

Louis patted and the boy on the head and the boy ran off. Louis turned and smiled when he saw Harry. “Did you like the play?”

“It was excellent! Your students were wonderful, Lou. I’m so proud,” Harry said, his heart skipping a beat when Louis’ smile turned shy.

“They worked really hard,” Louis said.

“Yes, but they also had a magnificent teacher; my Lou,” Harry said.

“Yours, eh?” Louis said, trying to hide the way his blush had darkened. “How many times did you doze during the speech by the headmistress?”

Harry decided that he would let Louis change the topic for now, and he would praise Louis in more uninhibited terms later. “I didn’t doze at all because it was fascinating to watch someone fall in love with their own voice, and decide to never stop speaking,” he said dryly.

Louis laughed, his eyes crinkling. A few of his colleagues joined them before Louis could reply. The rest of the evening was spent in mingling with parents, and with Louis’ colleagues. A parent waylaid Louis as they were talking to the games master.

Harry continued talking to the games master, who was charming and interesting, but he excused himself because he had to meet someone else. Harry looked around for Louis, and saw that Louis was still talking to the parent.

Harry wanted to kiss Louis until his lips were bruised, and then take him again and again as he told Louis how much he loved him. But, for now...

“I love you,” Harry mouthed when he caught Louis’ eyes.

Louis’ smile was sweet and bright, and Harry could see his expression soften to immeasurable fondness. “Me too,” he mimed when the parent was momentarily distracted by their child.

For now, this was more than enough.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if I'll write more for this 'verse, except for maybe a coda that's set between A Song For The Sea and Whispers In The Air. 
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts and comments! 
> 
> My [tumblr](http://steampunk-lou.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously science and skill are what have ensured the survival and existence of monuments for centuries, but in this 'verse these monuments were imbibed with a little magic and that's what makes them long lasting. The NWS has studied and adapted spells from a few monuments.
> 
> You can talk to me on [tumblr](http://steampunk-lou.tumblr.com)
> 
> The photoset for this fic is [here](http://steampunk-lou.tumblr.com/post/162302546674/whispers-in-the-air-pairing-harry-styleslouis)
> 
> Thoughts and comments are appreciated!


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